Thursday, September 24, 2009

September 24, 2009

she can't be
alone with herself
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

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

dragonfly . . .
spare the rice field
that feeds us

robert d. wilson