i am a tall building, barred from being any shape
that is not a square. this is concrete. must
sniper-people shooting, all
following a beat
of a song that belongs to a womb
they are afraid of- but no, these are not
the voices i want to give to. they are merely
the arrows pointing to the voices
i wonder about. how did they get into such a mess?
they could not afford what was to
ignorant they were
of the betrayal they married- insulation for the void.
but in my womb, the accumulated
dust that congregates are the voices who learn
they do not need names. oh, family in
a house being space between
walls where you go to get away
from the galaxy
spying on you.
all blind and in wheelchairs our whole lives? ripples
are all which ruffle our feathers. ripples
is how it's been. as far as the galaxy goes,
stars communicate. it is not my knowing
what it is they say.
at most, i feel their yellowness
reminiscent of the godhead- also, a yellow star.
waving to and fro- "light hello" and
it has released
thousands of moths, attracted
to other sources of light. warmth is sensual
for these messengers, who come and go
spasmodically. it is how they were built. something
about illumination that convinces the moths
they are home again, that
it is not prison.
the roof is nice.
the electricity works. the roof is nice. the
electricity works. now the moth
must wave hello to somewhere else. goodbye light, goodbye.