Compulsive-
as we lie in broken
constellations.
We scatter ourselves
about the night-dripping
fields, burying ourselves
in the purple loosestrifes
to sleep with eyes wide open.
In our arrays of solitude
in all parts of nature,
we softly learned the
lacy folk songs which
fell in the breezes
from the stopping willows.
We lie as decaying beings
in the new sunshine,
in the quickly growing wheat
as it speaks swishingly
and wraps around our human bones.
Disengaged in the country air
we were warped
islands with no tides.
The farming fields rose
about us,
these shuttles who
grew rusty in our
disrepair.
There is no use for
mis-launched space
ships, falling stars.
The red barns
in accusatory stance.
The field mice
winding themselves
through our hair.
The gravelly lane
and sunny bees
whisper
airy songs
in the faint summer light.
No comments:
Post a Comment