Wednesday, July 21, 2010


Begins with openings
Of eyes;
of soundwaves and frequencies and windows of noise,
and lights and moods and
then movements.
Now begin the deaths of dreams
Contrived in oil spat onto printed pages,
Sleep-steeped streets
And Day.
Alarm -
It’s in your head, you said,
with your lack of a care as you sped past from kitchen to corridor to door
slam to station
and saw only what
Was at the next stop (comfortably
Landing your conscience onto an ear-phoned cushion).