A heron dreams about handprints
on the uneven ceilings over naked soldiers
in the rooms where the dust can't whisper
a word of solace into slippery mirrors
to sliced waters that return to the sky.
It's a silly way to say how
cormorants dry their wings
and foxes consecrate the ground.
Worms crawl out of apples,
octogenarians drop the checkbooks,
squirrels clash blades of grass.
There is a song of a potted plant
lost in the evening,
lips losing hoary rhymes,
stars entangled in their own
hair and dung, and the hirsute eye
of the sun underground pleased by
the saliva of deaf mutes.
Butterflies have a sacred duty
of eradicating skyscrapers from the
face of the planet, but clouds can
sleep for decades above and below,
but for children to keep rotten wings
under the pillows would be a bliss.
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