The portent of age
My name is unimportant. It has scratched the surface of wonder. The mirror reflects a lightness, a mortality, the unease of knowing death is coming on and on and on. The shattered glass mimics the paths once taken. Truths gloriously locked in green hands. The music plays on through the fog of age. Limbs lie close to dust. The wind cries cruelty like birds of prey-life is a jackknife, howling.
Deaf foghorn
My face is not important. It sailed award winning photographs nailed to bedroom walls. Mint green leaves discarded like spent tissues littered steps descending. Trees disembarked pine needles. The river stopped for a moment to polish rocks. Hail clobbered the car with noise. It bruised the glass. Thin airborne kisses reached high above above high the ground. Light beams like angry eyes glow on the dark side of naked. The where is nowhere known-life is a shadow stalking shadows.
Hands like pieces of the moon
My hands are not important. They hold long embraces to ensure the credibility of passion. A salient line of pine trees secure birds in their arms. Red robins sing green melodies out of tune. They fly a straight line into window panes. A suicide of mistaken identity. Blind hands blister nonsense on sand beach. Seagulls fly in reverse to escape the heat. Those hands carry stones in palms to the river drown-life is a glove shivering
Black holes and butterflys
My eyes are not important. To see the future, reach for a black hole. Get to close, pulled into a funnel of darkness. No escape beyond the rim, beyond horizons between us. The trees are painted black. The earth is a ball of wax. Pretend gravity does not exist “Darling, I can’t live with you anymore.” Another black hole appears. It consumes the light we shared. Time is a long distance runner. Space is a blank piece of paper. The turtle is deaf. The yellow haze of sunflowers bright-life is a butterfly hiding from the rain.