How about a dollar? Or the
every pine needle I’ve ever smelled as they stood in front of that winter wind
that couldn’t stop and said, “Have you ever considered grace?”
They held the Bible ‘top their
heads: an ancient mothball shield. They shook and though of still the slivers
in the wool and November chill that let the men and child atop its back.
(flying north)
It took then like a dragon;
oriental snow draped like ammoniac freeze steam from the dots: a base.
It’s back was wave – the snow
cried to it’s blizzard belly, so many men; so many movement’s waste.
The grey – heaven high; Earth
below, the grey the snow. The reverend stood atop the fluid beast, “The Lord.
The Valley of Death
How about a dollar? Or the
every pine needle I’ve ever smelled as they stood in front of that winter wind
that couldn’t stop.” And said, “Have you ever considered grace?”
He was just a boy. They died.
A dad and boy awoke in sheets of snow. Their suits were wool. They walked into
the woods. There was a girl, a monster and a tree: they smell a trace.
The melt! A second passed. No
more. A freezing bus that takes a boy away, back to the North, a cottage window
deep into the snow, radio: screaming of a frozen pack.
It took then like a dragon;
oriental snow draped like ammoniac freeze steam from the dots: a base.
Thick ones barreled through
the trees; deeper, fists and clubs laced with a blood. Smashed glass never
really leaves your hair, and baths with only loose the muscles in your seizing
mace.
The masks and metal eyes, the
hair chopped in a bowl, the little boy. His eyes and paper lips into the only
spring that’s blessed, the birthday party shouts, the sun at ten o’ clock.
Their back:
How about a dollar? Or the
every pine needle I’ve ever smelled as they stood in front of the winter wind
that couldn’t stop and said, “Have you ever considered grace?”
How about the bears that
dance; the ochre paints and brush the strokes that flicker thick and drip too
high? Moving speed; slow his thoughts weigh thick his shoulders shaking like
the drawing finger ace.
The Pinto moving in a circle
right towards the line of sky the road becomes so fast so twitch so rapid
shaking that the rock itself takes to the air and all the wheels detach
It took then like a dragon;
oriental snow draped like ammoniac freeze steam from the dots: a base.
A hundred million pinpricks on
the chest to boil to roll to watch the freezing wood burn to the ground: to let
the human face give the grace and give the pace.
But after all the single
placed (the momentary states that don’t and won’t exist) the moan and low paced
notes swing low and clear resound into my couch and hack
How about a dollar? Or the
every pine needle I’ve ever smelled as they stood in front of that winter wind
that couldn’t stop and said, “Have you ever considered grace?”
It took then like a dragon;
oriental snow draped like ammoniac freeze steam from the dots: a base.
