Sunday, January 10, 2010

morning glories

by Tom Blood


like whistles, I am stiff and singing on a ledge

and am reminded of my old form, the mirrors

that stare on, willing and able

where the moon sets the sun

and the moon beggars about

in a sheet bird


waterfall withering the cloth moon

oh, godly world

burglar of the boat

a balloon dragging the wind down

as a water skimming over


so I wander as Moses, without an Egypt or an Israel

looking into the centuries ash

for what appears as a fire escape in this crap building

is seeing pumpkin sprout in the moon’s belly


it’s nothing, really, it’s nothing, but it is not always through the first world we see

the being and end yester trees with grace among us

as when the drowsy fairies take the guardian poodles away from our temple memories

and our swimming hands are allowed to turn the pages of the world

it’s nothing, it’s just the fog coming to night us over 

(in Peaches and Bats 4)

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