As she lay sleeping

The word unsaid

and spoken word

danced among pigeons 

chased pollen and dialects

and at sunset sat

across an oaken table

stirred weariness

into coffee and violets

compared notes. 

Meanwhile

in an orphaned city

where highways left byways

and flew over rabbits and tortoises

the road not taken

met the chosen path

and in gravel tones

smoothened by silences

talked of the lost maps of sanity

where

where we were before

has forever been erased. 

There were also lemons

that had never heard of lemonade

pigs ignorant of bacon and sausage

lovers yet ignorant of heartache

delicate vases pouring scents

that twirl in Dry Zone dust

to gather the songs

of the voiceless.

There is blood and despair,

sunlight bested by cloud

trembling rain and grass

raw woodapple smiles

that creep under elephant fear

to flavor sambol and resurrections

no one will ever record.

There’s news of an earthquake

and a kidnapping

chips falling where they did

murder legal and otherwise

percolating the gastric juices

so necessary

for the consumption of the unpalatable.

And it rained

and it rains

gigantic turtles

escaped from an evolutionist’s cage

arrest eyes and time

and all things unregistered

commerce in the black markets of defeat

where the marrow of a city

lie amid scattered vegetables

too dead for resurrection.

In the rear view mirror

the road runs away

and the competitive spirit

brings closer the pursuer

people bend and swerve

up ante and give the V-sign

only to be stopped by red light

and pedestrian crossing

the accidental intersections

four letter words

that coin new vocabularies

in the consecration of impatience.

There’s a window pane

and a tree

a curtain and an alarm clock

conspiring to stop dream

and nightmare

a blue balloon and a kite

catching lightening and curse

watermelon pink

splattered on a pavement

where cats given up on love

settle for wayside food.

There are hands that would hold

eyes that will not close

a bedside vigil

in candle lit despair

a book with intoxicating ink

the music of turning pages

and hearts

so many times turned

inside out

that reverse works just as well.

There’s a foot step

on a footfallen landing

abandoned keys

and rust frayed knives

that cannot cut or blunt

and words that return

wearing unrecognizable vowels.

They gather at your feet

all these creatures of your making

they mean no harm

they dare not touch

they would not go

had they the choice

but will disappear with the first stirring

and you in half-sleep stupor

and fully awoken clarity

without cry or smile

will gather what’s left

from pre-sleep memory

toss it all into the garbage can

return to bed

and sleep.

Bless you, my child.