There pops the shell, it disappeared over night. I think the wind turned it to a liquid that now lightly lines my sidewalk. I walk over it daily, but the delicacy is gone. Now it is the same impermanent hard stuff that I can use and use over again.
This tool is a stem
Plucked straight to its
Death
And placed kindly in
Your hand
Do you like
Your dead
If it has petals? Is the dead
A beauty
When you cannot touch
The pain
It feels from infinite thirst
While you remain
Mostly water
Standing under a winning heat?
Traveling while their backs are turned. I’m just talking about some rail guards who have their own daydreams going blank against the tv screen. No more thinking about thinking and all the thoughts one thought to have. They die inside the creation of a million thoughts focusing on
Nothing
No commentary bubbles
No tiny stone under my fingernails
It’s sand that falls from
Between the cracks of what I hold and what you once held
We can’t have the same and the same time
I can breathe the boundary between us as I remain a pretense until I become
A tool
That is a dead thing
For the next to rise and conquer
A stepping stone
For yesterday’s pyramid
Or a copper plate on an old lady’s neck.
I want to turn into oil
Running thick on the minds of nations who want me to remain where I really belong
Back into the muck
Of the land
Hardening into millennia long strands of interwoven pressure
No comments:
Post a Comment