Monday, November 2, 2009


I think of how to fling my arms around the painted sun,
long enough to dry the rain drops covering the seas,
find referents for the signifiers divorced from their signifieds,
rock the world to sleep with a single lullaby,
plant lilies on the moon

but in time for me to slip onto the isolated cloud
who moves with prosthetic wings
into another world--a better world
between the hills
and the invisible souls of dead soldiers,
without wooden boxes.

A quietus clear as a rain drop.

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