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*as if the sun whose only crop is light and side to side  you tune the nozzlefor that distant evening when the first plow cut open the night sky and the Earth was born with no turning back what you hear are streetsrow by row, frail, their hills allowed to fall and without any shade: paving is all it takes, the grass made whole, already spreading out and nobody dies anymore, your belly lasts, covered with the same dust all roads return to for the slab smoothed down by road crews and rakes: the black hair beginning to stir, the breasts become another heart already trembling, filled by a garden not yet green torn apart by a touch almost morning and roads for the first time endless. Simon Perchik |