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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