Thursday, May 11, 2006


somehow you still got
that essence of long ago
told stories, the kind
we sang before ever
writing them down,
there's a pure world you
see dressed in rags,
where wild parsley crushes
concrete, bodhisatvas sit in
sandwhich shops tracing
paths with coffee fingers,
and sorrow is scattered by wine

lets get us some crayons
and draw up some reflections,
try to fool ourselves,
stopwatch eyes across
desert waves, and
you said light just doesn't
refract the way it used to,
and reached out, going to grab
at burnt, patchwork shadows

the blind card dealer
shows me the wrong day's morning,
the smoke is painted on
thick, and I see you
thinking about wings,
powder blew,
the total moment,
just like an old song

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