September 24, 2009

she can't be
alone with herself
considers
sword play with wind mills
a waste of time


if i have
to drink with you . . .
we piss stars


do they wake
up beside cockroaches,
watched by rats,
the stench of feces
in humid heat?


your shell,
turtle, a refuge
from words


when i wake
up, has it been
a dream . . .
a scribble in
another's notebook?


is it the
puzzle that keeps us
floating?


the woman
she was when we
married
left home in a car
she couldn't fix


dragonfly . . .
spare the rice field
that feeds us


robert d. wilson
©2009