Apr 20, 2011


The point where grass bursts
from ground, a follicle
for those blades of the blood
of the sun.  It’s all about
scale—the Atom will tell you—
the emptiness that is
the lattice of experience.
A point on a line, losing
everything from one moment
to the next.  The sky
is blue or black; clouds
are grey or white.
Only so many
days available, only so much
time to think of
the available days.

Like extensions, the time spent
under the star of the mind,
my elusive dreams:
metal flowers of ships
melting into the sluggish sea,
a constellation seen from  above.
How everyone winds up there
in the end—the dead, the living
& everyone else. 

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