l i g h t h o u s e
i.
the village is an instrument
for cash. lavender skyline
smudged to pink. It's how
the sun shines in: round
curve grinding snails
to bits. Where bars
suggest animal and faux moss
the garden imagined by capitalists.
ii.
the frozen birds
today 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.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment