When the shoulder breaks

Off the early morning flower,

The dirtied soil underneath it,

Conjures up

Its own internal battles.

The levies the rain created

A few nights ago,

Fill with uncertain


Of sound and head nods.

The songs

Made me cry.

And the pictures they made

Had me holding the cross

To my forehead.

The roots look like veins,

The ends being the fire,

The beginnings the ice.

And who wins this war

But no one

In sight.

I created a clasp

To hold together

The earths surface

And the earths crust.


Yellow beaded walks.

Tyrant signals.

Finger snaps.

The colossal leap

That resides in my house,

Recoils off the walls

Like a thousand sounds

Of rumbling children

When the spring finally breaks.


I gave in.

The laboring paint,

As it races against its own,

Makes its way to the

Bottom molding

Of my living room floor.

Its sighs are a trickle

Or tight clenched eyes

In the half morning wake

Of mortals.

Being mortal.

And here is this ear tug.

To awaken any brazen beast

That lives beneath the floorboards.


I let it grow.

On its own.


What else can we find?

The fossil and fuel of ships

That we predicted

Would crash.

The rough edge of a free land

That melted its mud

Into the sea.

The cough of a man

In the tall of the trees

That gave him away

To the dogs.

The dogs.

The left of center language

They speak,


That the tunes

In my head

Are the size

Of the lint

I find in my


I give in.

And it's the sound

Of a million church bells

Rattling the lumber

Of its sacred fort.

It's the gut of a man

Who committed many murders.

It's the hind legs of a donkey.

It's the load;

The barracks;

The end of each sentence

In a poem

By itself

And its author.

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allets's picture


So many worlds colliding, the author where? at the end - nice - Lady A