yesterday’s nest
cuckoo-hawks we called them in our running
as we left our eggs out in the fields of childhood
hatching plans so naughty that we disowned them
they grew awesome in grasses of the sun’s burning
our flames consumed all the regenerations of time
as it spun around us as we spun our chrysalises
hatching the temporality of a kid’s amusement
the dust of these times in the eyelashes of a fluttering age
what armchair could hold an old man when that flickering
flies in the face of the iron compartmentalism of his futures
oh my sun let’s run and run and fly
No comments:
Post a Comment