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