the sky a grey stretch going nowhere
the wind in the sawgrass of no one between the millions of bladelings
the weight of nothing cures in the smoke for preservation
it will always be today
the light is on, the light is off
the numbers of the clock have gone
and still you strain at the sounds
in other apartments
remember just this morning dreaming
where you held your hands and they filled with snow
but when you awoke your hands held nothing
(for Will Mayo)
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment