Wednesday, February 08, 2006

In June I am Picking Roses

and it is sweltering.
The wind rocks me back and forth in the hammock,
and whispers:

Sleep, sleep.
I wonder if night will ever come.

A door creaks open behind me, fireflies buzz quietly.
The spaceman in the doorway
hands me stars to hold up the
moon, because I cannot hold them up by myself.

"Are stars fireflies?"
I ask the spaceman.
"No," he says, "they are flowers,
growing in a dead universe."

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