Above Our Knees
We dwell in a place of runaway waters.
There is a sky below where mosquitoes roar.
We play dice with the clouds each morning.
The losers get drunk, the winners turn into trees.
There are too many strangers in the world,
all looking for a myth.
And The Hoarded Echoes
The life of squirrels and birds is one
huge abbreviation, and they don’t
care much what it means. They visit
underpasses when no one is there
to disregard the graffiti and the chatter
stuck in the cracks of the roof.
They can muffle the sun easily
while the treetops point at the places
the winds fail to reach.
It Is
It is only a night in front of an empty sky,
both are blind and fickle. It's one of the chants
that belong to the drunken stones.
Behold the urine of reluctant dogs
and the grass that always shines in the dark.
Sleeping
We are sleeping, but the ocean
teems with turtles. Millions
of alien radio stations fight for our ears.
In search of unsung utopias
trains leave the rails with fish in the windows.
Yes, we are sleeping.
No comments:
Post a Comment