The information is a body of stalwart images.
Old crones beat on banjos and false stories flit in
Tigers crowd in jungle alleys, weaving
Their tails, darkness flocks the moon. My eyes are
Full of pollen. My lips are rosy red and lock in struggle
Between manbear and bargirl. My mother tells me
Histograms are the finest art; she is polite to the man in
The green truck. He wanders by, fresh as daisies.
His mood changes from sea to sky. The Indians melt in
The snow. Tales of lost laundry and broken dreams
In the sky.
A blue-tailed crane is in flight.
Float the moon.
The wind whispers sad, lonely things.
The crying of ghosts meets the whisper of words
And images fade in my memories.