June 12, 2004

• we are sworn to silences

  the footsteps underneath our hands are secret
  following the paths of little boys
  who step into abandoned churchlots

  mountains marry us
  the stillness of their valleys
  stooping to place awkward shoulders
  near our heads

  the flight of birds
  that falls across the sea

  is of those regions where our eyes
  rest on each other quietly

  and we are sworn to silences

  because there are no voices
  in a country waiting

  Deep Thought: Instead of a regular arm, Carl had been born with a pigeon’s wing. The odd thing was, all through his life, no one had ever laughed at his wing – not even the mean kids at school. Then one day he realized why: He looked in the mirror and saw that HE WAS A PIGEON! He shit right there, as he often did, wherever he was.
  Today I am grateful for: Birds of a feather

  • 9:37 am
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