For a long time I threw faces
to the world, waiting
for the stuccoed arrival of evening;
now I hear the ping ping ping
over in the camp of night
where they've been holding my breath.
In the public square men with
wet cheeks build a machine
that runs on milk and it leaks milk
and someone's aurora borealis
struts down Alaska Avenue.
These are difficult mathematics-
we're forced to solve with
our limbs and fingers.
I need a drink of acetylene,
wicked and laced with alpenglow,
to rid my nights of this restlessness,
to forever end metaphor and semaphore,
to just once say it out loud.
WOULD YOU LIKE A FAMOUS ARTS
3 years ago