Night Soldiers.

Night drifts in from all sides.
Sounds pour from all sides.
Speakers are in the walls.
The sound of winter enters from all sides.
The sound of winter is in my veins.

I walk on prose. Prose is gray.
It drifts through a stormy day.
Frogs walk on goodbye sticks.
Stones move over solid mountains.

He is a stalworthy soldier,
A sentinel in sheep clothing-
He eats macaroni and cheese,
He sings songs to the ocean.

Night drifts from all sides.
I can’t speak reason without breaking
Reason. My heart, o glorious wind,
You dry your tears and the tears are still.

I perchance. I perchance miracles, perchance
The doorman, he sat on a foot stool,
Whispered melodies to sorry green rivers.
I am free.

My worries are bothersome. They make
My mother, my brother. They scout
Across deserted landscapes;
Wave crests drift, naked, on the desert floor.

The rose was left in a mudbank.
A man in a dark suit walks across the mudbank,
His eyes stare blindly into the flower.
He is the flower. The flower stills. Stiller than breath.

The Day Folds At the Sistine Chapel, 1989.

I walk up a marble staircase to my new house,
And the dog follows me. Quick on my heels.
I drop the box I am carrying and glance upward-
Stares at the ceiling.
It is a white ceiling.
It is the same kind of ceiling that everyone else
Has.
It is not the Sistine Chapel.
It is not any kind of chapel at all.
Just like the Sistine Chapel,
It is made out of walls, of wood-
The steps are carved out of stone.
His eyes are bright.
They shine deeper than mountains.
A school teacher, he sings to lonely mountains
And stares down at the world.
His mind takes a sharp turn.
His body is art.
His art is his words,
Carved on old doors in pawn shops,
Carved in bed posts at furniture shops.
He keeps something from his children.
That he had a bad heart.
He keeps it to himself,
And hopes the world falls around his ears,
Hopes the world dies, lonely and afraid,
He is lonely and afraid.

He is madly in love.
She works at an art museum.
She works in the gift shop at the art store
And whispers A Capalla to herself,
Every single night before the museum
Closes and the art is hidden from the world.
Art is hidden from the world every single
Night after closing time.
Some people say that the paintings come to life
During the night.

The night guards say they have never seen them.
He is madly in love.
She sees him standing in the doorway,
Wearing a suit and tie,
Thinks about his future and the future
Fades away.
Replaces by lonely mountains.
The mountains are made out of glass.
Hash. Sash. Her grandmother wears a sash
And hangs it in her hall closet.