Wednesday, October 12, 2011

Wall Street

there are gamblings
the paint on houses,

making the leaves peel and the
eaves shake gently

the hunters moon
suspended over
a sea of chalky

middle america
street lamps

marks shouts
like accounts
being balanced
on hot red throats

out in the bigger cities, or
the biggest
the people gather their water
and voices
into one
swollen herd
pregnant with

mewling against
meadows of money:

someone stop
our highest
from blocking the winds
that cool

let the wind shoot
across our plains

which is when
the little houses on plains
closed throated

and simply sign the next check.

a body for all seasons

In the color of
forgotten organs,

deep mottled tissues, I find

a world diseased in

in only seeing the edge
of things, I climb up

winter through fall,

the tracks I have yet to make

in yielding snows

my gray body sings
even though its

skin is sloughed into
the sky

I am a dappled season,
the fragrance of rot

firmly loved, utterly welcomed

for its shameless ability
to change

My organs are hidden

in laughing caverns
wearing their colors as though they were crows