Thursday, April 05, 2007

BellumLetters # 5

l i g h t h o u s e

the village is an instrument
for cash. lavender skyline
smudged to pink. It's how
the sun shines in: round
grinding snails
to bits. Where bars
suggest animal and faux moss
the garden
imagined by capitalists.

the frozen birds
were like starlight
streaming through a sieve.
Feathers soft despite
the cold. We dragged
the goose home in a net
and then arranged the quills
upon a shelf. It's like
pretending somewhere
else the lantern still exists;
machines of nesting, a wealth
of stunned propellers.

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is this real?