a commonplace point of view

the letter A is filled with the fire of the desert
cutting off hands at the wrist
like neon water-pumps
arranged on the lines of perspective that wander the town
on a dark evening when the incandescent birds
fall from bough to bough like the lips of a girl
who at the age of seventeen laid shoes on her bed
and turned from the flowers of ice that invaded her dreams
to lose herself in the childhood of her friends
who wove through the days of her life like a bucket of steam
muffled with banners of wings
and a ladder rose from her head to inherit the stars
which you ask me from which did the ladder emerge
the larger and smaller heads we find in the woods
the pitiless heads that follow us through the streets
the heads that exist and the heads that are merely seen
or the heads that are buried in snow
I would never dare to presume
for I am only the penny that never dropped 
and she had one of each 
though the head she preferred the head that was carved out of stone 
was a delicate shade of green
so she climbed the ladder and climbed the ladder again 
and halfway up she pressed her face to the wall
peeling back the wax that obscured the smiles
that form in the silent air of deserted rooms
and as she rested her face it began to change
becoming a lampshade a vase and a ball of string
entombed in the memories of those who give cushions to wrens
the blank discs of leather dropped from the ceiling like rain
for the hatpin was only the cage

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s