Cities and suburbs, real and imaginary.

Tuesday, January 12, 2021


The feather tips of desert grasses paint

the misty morning shades of green and brown

against the fog and sweeping winds, the sounds

Of autumn come at last to this dry saint

A shrine inside the hollow of a tree

Where a candle of the lord faints

Take a long breath of this damp autumn

Full up with wind that has blown across the world

To the poles and back and back again

Inside the lungs of elephants and crickets

Born of the trees that drift to sleep or stuck

From passing comets where the gravity captured bits of burning tail

We breathe the centuries, we breathe the air of saints and kings

We breath and share this wind, this drizzle

That gathered moisture from our lungs and grasses until it fell upon the candles

Swelled in gusts and damp leaves to blow them out

The feathered tips of desert grasses dance for us

Against the grey cloud curtains

Blow out your candles, and grant some small applause

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