Friday, September 30, 2011

postcards from vacuums of delight

night stoops black/blue like falcons, like Superman's hair
smashing doves from the forest sky

the ashtray is your snout
you thing of clay and fire
would you like one of these tablets?
your leg is an oak tree trembling
your back is some sort of ocean fret
your hair is a vast spider taking off
never to

feel again the launch
of our shuttle and shuffle
our shining catch at morning
my best friend
the time weaves on

I am cutting our cords
you and me rise over the hedgerows
caught in sudden lifts, wet
caught bright like stars, scraps of web
that drift apart in the early dawn

you worry that I am a spaceman sent outside
drifting off open-mouthed into the endless empty blue
maybe I am
I will try not to be

but I can't help sending back
from these new strange worlds

wish you were here


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