dreams

Be my Witch

You must be my Witch In the day, you are as plain as day I think you don’t see me Maybe you think I don’t see you but I am good at eyes Always in your greys and tans and flats Shiny swinging hair Bottle goggles to discourage the shallow You glow from the feathers […]

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Breakdown

I speak in tonguessometimes.Surely at night,in deep sleep,but now, of late,in broad day.Not literally, of course,or they’d send me to the bin.It started with watery voices,the makers of dream.We argued, for sport.But they’re no longer day blind,and I mimic their lies.

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We come from the sun

We come from the Sun,they say to me,from the wrong side of my ear.But why?Why for?I mumble in cotton.For answer,they show their hands,oven-mittened.See. See our thumbs.They are wide.Splayed and strong.We will gentle you,raise you from the gorge. Life is but a dream.

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a working man

Old Man. He come every day at twilight time. I hears the bony drum, cicada’s hum. He wear raggedy clothes, canvas cap, yellowy beard. And his work he does. Cranks that gear handle round and round. Powers up the tiny lights. Pinpoints in the pinwheel spiralled sky of night.

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