Sunday, December 27, 2009

Flat Bed of Grass.

The flowers are all white
And lay in a flat bed of grass,
High in the Himalayas,
The mice make nests.

The pigeons sleep in roofs
Made of glass.
In rivers born of tears.
Emotions sharpen in quick sand.
Everything I know has been sunk.

Memories fade down me slowly.
Justice has been broken over rocks.
Pouring rain comes down.
Sleep is a broken meadow.

The flowers hide under things.
Pictures are cut out of magazines.
Women wear high heels to work,
I have worked every day.

You broke me, you broke me.
I am sheltered in broken things.
Sleep is a meadow, sleep is promise,
Sleep is dew wrapped in dew.

I have never wakened.
I have never spoken of glass.
Candle flames flicker in a white candle.
The flowers are all white and lay in a flat bed of grass.

The woman used to live here.
She has disappeared.

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