Lemon Grass
Where pebbles are my body
he said
and a lover of bones
and old things
down the middle
a skinny girl mountain
next to a
bull of a father
you are not safe anymore
she said
smiling into the gong which are the teeth
of the old house icon of the
rusting field
all into the wind
we who are the heart of a widow
cut across the white rice city
until the smallest one
arrives like hair does
and she turns her back
and her blouse turns black
and goodbye is a stage
below the highest nation
and like an aged Persian
the man riding into the
match box
all night and day
wears his cloths like a river
through your darkness
he pilots a call
anger and love
and useful bickering
water and quiet trees opening
in the bed next to her
the young wall
of a thunderstorm
a guest
a singer of white light
chickens looking like their fields
the bag of a green king
who’s looking for a waitress
the water and red sun
and you’re still alive
while the Spring
never wavers (
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