Less than the other, we spread.
Has in the saddle, heart on a future destiny.
Out/into fine voices
and turnaround, catch sun,
finger and discard.
When is time
on the edge, then clocks fall
towards yellow.
And light is gone, is never was a
mysterious lion, she
devours the days. Her countdown in a celebration
of night. Call and call and call again
names that
light the way with lilies
and dream of aliens
in jelly jars.
this way, silent as postcard
landscapes. find us at rest on roots. count
hours until run out of fingers.
to dance in dim hallways.
to sex on rooftops, one hundred
faces invert. wait
for the bus. travel on. move along on.
tumble away, little tumbleweed.
the bus is good and mighty.
she is wheels on fire, reflecting beautiful sunsets
in wavered temple light.
she rides us away to the tunnel between
heaven and hell.
stand on the seats,
bent at the knees.
our smiles that not a soul
will ever understand.
