Saturday, October 3, 2009



A moment of trouble gives me the happy finger
A wasted station’s lost voice cracking the word
And the word is to know that
The streets are full of water and lost chances
Horses with wheels and unfixed luck
The monkeys that run the place must
Be eating their own belts
A mob of trees cheers the spilling
Of apples, like the aftermath of a quiet bomb,
Like guts decorating the cobbles
The young know the valley
In it they lost everything; money and a way to tell tales
Prepare to receive their thoughts.

a cityful of clouds
heaped on a brother’s brother
a meeting passing notice
an hour that never dies
houses full of bricks and onions
piled against the night
the sin that never washes away
the stain of nature every second dying
every second being born
the coincidences and revealed meanings
the reverend breeze the empty, hopeless sky
the cold sandy sun
a hand in the window across a sleepless valley
the ghosts of great men
born in the blood of the lamb
things I’ve seen in the middle of the night.

No comments: