Wednesday, August 5, 2015

tough love.

i am a tall building, barred from being any shape
that is not a square. this is concrete. must
assign voices:

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-
a house being space between

walls where you go to get away
from the galaxy

spying on you.

aren't we

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
"light goodnight."

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.