Sunday, March 16, 2014

From gift to heaven

I wasn't hoping for a foy but you gave me a zill
so I went to find yummy rhythm in a desert hot,
chiming funny silver disks without a metal thrill
of my own. A mirage entered late my only shot

for salvation, sand so cool at night a gone mystery
where you fear dawns, fear that orange orbs rising
are the people inside of your head so sore of trying.
This place is dry, I would like to really green a tree

but I cannot find water beneath sand. Thin mocking
voices float sibilant but I should have earful known
that hiss from before, should have known a-rocking
in the cradle would resolve to this. Cannot be flown

the skink, cannot be flown the newt, birth defects
deny wings, deny in white marble a cold genuflect.

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