When on the banks

--WHEN ON THE BANKS-- 8/12/08

The bridge twists from the island
to another
and another from there to the mother land.
Comfort in the sauce.
Pours gold down throats.
Note the bubbles.
the causes.
make blessings over nesting thoughts,
like flurries caught,
in summer's stare,
in pure staleness,
and boiled air.
Frigid do the fingers run
about the scattered hairs.
The sunlight caught their
backbones and spines shine sparkles
to stars and glistens on the arms
of motor cars.
Take a glance.
A forfeit to the nestled gods,
they forge on milky sunday whispers.
Spill spitted laughter on the faces of
our children.
Caressing baseball fields with dirty sneakers.
Speakers and readers found in borrowed spaces.
Places where coffins are dug from dirt lots,
drawn to the surface and left to linger.
Where frowns smile into pools and rivers.
Large, to the tossing landscape.
Figures who mourn over drained plateaus.
Swan dives into the clear clear coated frontier.
Know no other nearness and fear but
three tosses to midnight.
I'd rather call the moon to front lines when
every other satellite failed consistency tests,
when they tortured their tongues my ears
retreated to the mainstayers caves.
Called the disaster in a number of ways
Rinsed the memories from the balanced
and courageous.
Mixed the sky with the dirt from the
line beyond my feet.
I dream of such lovely scenes.