Sunday, December 4, 2011

stone birds nest

stone birds nest
in the creases
of my heart

they sing
the emerald song
of the mountain
from which
they were made

a ghostlike herd
of granite horses
pours into the valley
of my spine

an equine avalanche
with jeweled eyes
like embers

with steaming manes
that swallows hurtle from
to the directions of this world

dark swallows that carry
the stone songs
to the trees

and the tree songs
back to the mountain
beyond my eyes.

Pink Flag

this town has been dead for generations

a diagonal sun casts corrugated shadows from the slumped rooflines

here we find our work ravelling the rusted intestines

here where we reassemble ourselves

our place of vision       so to speak

two kids following the train tracks like a dry stream bed

pick up a pink umbrella left inside-out by the wind

taking turns they wave it overhead     their vibrant eviscerated flag

another dream to collapse into another evening

I light another cigarette to prolong my vigil                          

the calculus of this place cascades over the ledge of observation

no one is entirely still or isolated

the death that comes is what daily divides us.