(no subject)

[figureofdismay]

We, who go outside to wander,
where each step is weathered
and each breath is weighed,
we that must experience each mile,
we have no wings,
waxwork mannequins -- animate.
The rose in the jar dies and dries
and cannot, with fire, be renewed.

Pollinate our thoughts,
ripen our brains in the sun,
resolving soon to cut our strings and wires.

There is laid out light like silk,
there is sea cliff and sea tide,
sea time like a watchful clock,
its springs unwinding.
Sea house perched at the edge of land
wherein your memories reside,
incognizant and and silent.
Turn a little key in the little bird's back,
see it flutter jeweled wings
and warble a clockwork song.
Play a record on the phonograph and dance,
listen to your feet shuffle (empty, hollow)
on the floorboards while you wait
for the rushing wave at your door.

We are small things, small things
spinning on the breeze,
dandelion down
and down, and on
with a passing sigh,
counting thoughts and birds
and blades of grass.
Found future in the bottom of a murky cup,
chance hung on a spinning coin,
spilled on the dirt with a bag of grain