We Don't Need the World

The ground on which we walk
is not our soil; o particles
of granite, slivers of glass

remember who we are when we
are gone. And Time's eye
dreaming of deliverance falls

fast asleep beneath the shadows.

Outside, the small black birds
tunnel through the sky; save
your little bodies for the tulips

who absorb your perfect songs,
your blue-black feathers, drinking
you like river water. Which flower

stings your heart like dying?

Soon our feet, bare and white
ripple through the sand like
sifting sands erasing who we are-

glittering, dissolving.

1 comment:

Rosemary Nissen-Wade said...

I don't know which I love more in your work - the originality or the beauty. Fortunately I don't have to decide; as a reader I can enjoy both.