Tuesday, March 20, 2007

sleeping gas

in the distance in the pale grey
dust on your hands
in your mouth and
the highways where the cities end
the spaces between them all
broken glass and brown grass
all emptiness and pain moving
towards the hills
dreaming of franco of pollock
of picasso and the small
moments he invented
the women he buried
and there is no turning away
here in the first bitter days of
there is no cause for joy
no forest that is not on fire
and in the distance there are
there are riders
there are fighter planes
coming in low
casting shadows over
everything we have yet to build

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