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A sunset has no falling hair.
Folder:
Bad poetry the Engulfed Cathedral
reflects inward from a street corner
atop the long filled pipes
that carry waste from the skin of the city
to the clogged arteries. From above
the smaller-brained animals
exchanging only simple glances.
yellow clouds linger like unwashed cotton
thrown about the ceiling, sunlight melting through them like butter
trying to expand a warmer muscle into the winding
argument of the street so that God can remember where we are.
Is there a reason for the flyers that sleep
along the beige storefront wall
telling me about the washing machine
that I will never clean my life with?
I am a machine in the garden
nothing but laurels, resting
you could mistake me for a falling breast
caught so much in the air that
we've sighed away our Summers in,
being children once, too, yes even
with tufts of golden hair that billowed about us like fog
before and after our heads went through the doorways
that Dad had built. One way or the other.
Do you remember that?
I think this storefront may still be
the zygote of the world. I am here
waiting to press into it, wanting to
become all steam and effort again. If only another fairer people
would also throw their lives away.
