Wednesday, 17 March 2010

In This Recurring Dream

Skeletons stand in rows across entire farms,
In scarves,
The wind bursting through each set of bones
Like a whistle in the restless mouth of a boy.

Bones tell us nothing about life or death:
White milk, wide open textbooks in laboratories,
film props,
These perfunctory things will outsmart the heart,
Survive like an ugly poem in a time capsule.

Legacies diminish,
And even if I smile, love several women more,
Believe in a brilliant god;
Liberties diminish.

Tonight, let even be enough:

Passing poverty,
My white sail is a healthy bone.
I wear a scarf,
Smelling of myself, and exit.

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