All over the place
pour, poor women and wine,
overflown lips,
she sees her particulates
in liquid stains
held over old flames.
There is no innocent steam,
the trees that finally fell to timber
under scurrying winds collecting
clay clouds, pulling out roots
by the palmful in a disintegration of states.
She seemed mad.
That insistent sun rose its entitled torch,
humming, ho-hum-mums-the-blue iris to day, to
dew, and do the birds hone a tone in
one place, canary, and crow
cemetery or church, middle C
night and gale mocking us.
She giggles at others tripping over
stone heads
and bumping toes on crosses;
no body ever saw her,
smiling some where upon
she cried upon recognizing herself
as naked truth.
It hurts to linger too long
exposed against acclimation.
We shatter in the cold.
We were always restructuring and stacking
cardboard and compressing pixels
over old times, keeping alive,
ashes and splashes
mixing and folding us back in.
This con-trap-she's in,
clearly cracking
from such extremes
of rising and falling
body temperature.
Such is life.
Photo By SMU Central University Libraries [No restrictions], via Wikimedia Commons.
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