Where hands are cupped
the lines become unstoppable
is only because of spilling and
not trying you drink from cups
and anger over the phone
a lonely life eating steak
but we must draw lines lines lines
the blooming face of solitude licking
the feet of horses and
loving the wings of birds but they are its children
and I can only pretend to know
the good of rolling in the dirt and the sky and the sun.
I want to roll in the sun before I die.
I wrote history
a letter in modern sickness
and do not expect a reply
but the white hair of your eye brows
makes the wonderment a nonchalance
a porch swing
the pond is filled with oracles.
Nice day for a swim.
And the LOVE will not lick
in the moment of command
or the counting
and recounting of blessings and what does that mean?
When nothing means more than unraveling
the last second of sign language
no politics no sex
just eyes in the last second
before the bombs of heaven swallow