Wednesday, October 18, 2006


each little white boat blacks the eyes
of the faces wakened by phone’s number
highways cutting rivers of deep nothing
they all argue over the phone for a while
until the sidewalk is muffled from the open air

now each puffed chest tells a sad story
clouded with snow from an argument
its face is not here to compromise
but it beats and in beating must bud
too soon to know how to bloom

brick chunks cling to each face
barren trees bicker over the boats
now each puffed chest overhears a sucking noise
checks the riverbed thrown at a window
         after the snow melts each face kills Time