Walking trees hide from yesterdays
behind stolen wine and unwritten music.
A flower spoiled by the dead
got bored with counting the stars.
Let’s build a house out of the books
written by idiots.
In a dream of a bird the night is long
like a bearded astronaut sleeping
on the shore of a mountain lake,
like a silent word, like a raindrop.
Barefoot angels ceaselessly dance on
crushed wine glasses.
The Lower Atmosphere
Shaggy rodents ceaselessly look for the urine of the stars
in the roar of the stairwells you would never be tired of.
Black grass scratches the shadows of hoary beings
forgotten somewhere between the folded waves of insomnia.
Puddle light can’t help cursing the sun.
Let me tell you a story too shrill for a pillow, too crumpled
and huge to be smothered with.