day job

the_old_world_s

In the photocopied forest,
where origami birds shed origami feathers,
where duplicates with papered eyes
riffle through the files of our dreaming,
where carbon copied life is rampant,
Rosalyn shows me a quick start guide
for human prototypes,
their care and feeding, how to keep them far
from wheels and fire,
thermodynamics
and recirculant mechanics.

Our bonsai minds are caged and shaped,
replicas in miniature of something greater:
trains, the sky, and lightning.

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telma, joanne, a train

never trust flowers

The rail clatters its rhythms but the carriages never move.
They’re always here, and through a frame, a door,
a window, a hole cut in a rainy mirror,
you can see them waiting.

Telma was painting the feature wall
with essence of vanilla. Joanne was reading
a possible book, perhaps the persistence of trains,
or a painting, the persimmonence of time.
She’d need her glasses to be sure.

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when will the mowing be done?

apples of the earth

the motor stutters and misses
the blades strike sparks off stones
he mows the lawn to dullness and straw
while he dreams of crystal forests,
of garden glades and Gaia
in the tunnel of the last afternoon
when the angels of air fall burning to earth
and the angels of rain are lost at sea
the mowers will rust in the meadows of ash
and no-one will need to mow

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