In this place the people drink coffee
Made from the film on the road when it starts to rain:
They scoop it up so the cars don't slip;
Maybe we will.
It's not at all like I imagined.
The wind blows dirt into my eyes
Instead of just my hair back.
Semantics suck at me.
It's forever beginning to rain here
The sky can't even decide
The wind asks the tops of the trees,
But they're all shaking in disagreement
Dripping sadness like collected dew
To remember when they danced with the air's breath.
My eyes ask everyone where you are,
But they just turn their heads away.
One mirrored, vacant, questioning pair,
And the woman walks out to say they're closed.
The wind has blown down rows of plants in the street;
I fly a kite and talk of flight
To dispell this sadness
Which envelops me, sitting in a dry, cube antechamber.
Piped-in pop, mocking; a fat child has a fudge-colored mouth
In a store. I've walked miles
With this rose in my hand
That Faye, dead 30 years, gave to me.
Since I cut it with my key,
Its exquisite death has
Poured itself through me;
Two wires, cut and left behind,
Are braided around your rose.
When a woman asked if it was going "in there",
I nodded and walked into the cemetary.
I climbed the fence out, and a man asked God to bless me
For some change.
Change.
My mundane reply echoed hollowly after me,
As my gift continued to die.
I am lost;
My mind is with you and I am not;
The wind is blowing.
It's raining, it's
Raining, it's
Raining.
(2002)
Tue, December 27, 2005 - 1:07 PM
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