Saturday, December 1, 2012

Language Poem


The children held each other’s hands and made a song.
Try me, follow the spheres to the brick-bound ends
and start again. Shake bloated leaves
from muddy feet and swerve in gravel rivers. Please,
prepare yourself. Hot air balloons are populating open sky
like old men in a weary mining town. And we are
always almost there, almost always there. Prepare yourself.
Whiskers licks her paw in silhouette. Prepare yourself.
Her imagination is a house of peeling paint, peopled by shoes
and the mud of shoes, and giant legs.
Heaven lets down its ladder in the backyard.
Did you see the oily spots two dumb birds left
on the window before I wiped them clean?
The worries of place must end for the blind and bodiless,
and the rings around our fingers will believe the best for us,
and we will keep dirt out of the cracks
in our paws with our clean tongues.