On Writing

Poem 10 – Remnants of my Saturday Morning Dream

Remnants of my Saturday Morning Dream

The old victorian house
is perfectly rickety
content in the state
of itself shifted and
unevened over time

In the streets around her
panic – human mayhem
worse than termites in wood
or bees behind a wall
yet the same in their
buzzing destruction
to exist

In the sky – translucent
black orbs floating to
concrete and mud
the stepping out of
holograms – ballroom
dancers sashaying
over bridges
into backyards

There is no threat but
the unbelievable –
the seeing of a thing the
eyes don’t know
how to believe

Yet inside the house
as I witness a man
stealing a chicken
from our coop
I do not feel afraid

I can hear the fattening
hum of melodies
our children are safe
in the swaying age of
the wise dwelling

Listen I whisper watch
look at the light
how it explodes from
the graceful legs
the bended arms
the necks curving
around the notes of
an extraordinary change

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