Untitled #314
Ten thousand stars emerge
from every teetering second.
I answer, forever.
"on a bed of nails
she makes me wait"
Schrodinger's Cat has been dead for several weeks.
"No. Not that."
People mill about in the streets
beneath yellow lights
and whisper of red balloons
drifting across a dark sky.
Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow and . . .
What is the what of meaning?
Two girls dressed in Sunday white
skip through the alley
strewing rose petals
amid the broken glass
and wet cardboard.
I used to know why
the coyotes howl.
Our fathers are dead and buried,
their stern voices forgotten
amid the commercials for viagra.
There is no history in the breathing.
This is a prayer.
Listen.
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1 comment:
Awesome, Bill. Thanks for sharing this.
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