Wednesday, April 24, 2013


Life's a blown curtain, I am in an industrial cocoon.
Lovers I've had, I love them now more than I did then,
and I don't want them back.
Even the usual litany of humiliations makes me smile,
the sun hammers on my shell.

I watch a tailgate party through my thought-bubble.
We are friends drinking beer, and we are about to be
killed, by ourselves.  We were not graded by the clouds.
We are still here, somehow, the ducks skirt sheen-puddles of oil.
They eat our soured bread from the pebbled edge.

Some unseen day nobody will record, planet-splinters jibe
with satellites, they move not because I've imagined them,
and they have no thoughts.  No librarian with hands
to cup the music; and it is alright, the riversides
and dried leaves are enough.

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