Sunday, January 18, 2009
The old things. The burnt caves, the frost-haired men, the blue owls seeping through the flight of dreams. A snake speaking its own tail, sliding from its feathered skin, becoming a lamb. The wet sky, my own mother, branches of fish spouting leaves as the twilight sleeps. The pink east. The flesh ring on the golden hand. The droplets of earth raining toward the sky. The road which is a tongue. The journey of words toward the grief-bitten mountains.
But now the morning shadow of a toaster. The garden sprinkler of the pierced heart. The cinching wings of the stapler. The kite’s breath, its taut string through the wireless air. The matte forest, its neuron trees, bitter fractals against the laser sky, squirrels like the Brothers Grimm skittering on the edge of story. A plastic honey bear, slow tears seeping from its conical head, a slurry exodus of bees.
Posted by gary barwin at 12:00 PM