Wednesday, February 4, 2009

Wintering not where the head lands

The hills of cloud spill their faces
into the canals. One saint floats
away into the sea--his oars
made of crystal, his heart
a ball of hair. We took
each others arms & ran
a volley of weapons into the squares.
Into the turning streets we streaked
narrow and disordered, our
wet clothes suctioned to our bodies.
Later someone sang into
a bottle the shape of night.

The phones were quiet mostly.

1 comment:

Shannon said...

A wonderful day. Let's do it again this year.