Saturday, April 3, 2010

Rain in the Engine of the Earth

The window falls open beneath slow hands
because the air in the room, so hot, has killed it.

In streams the gaze of streetlights,
in on the cooling wind
the sound of a silent world.

Even standing in a field a hundred thousand miles across,
the earth is a motor
and an engine
and the fresh-air scent of smog and silence like a disappointed sigh
blots out my eyes before starlight can reach me.

Even my whole skin in a moonlit stream
feels like rough grains of salt inside a fragile dream
from which I'll wake to find I've broken it
while sleeping dressed in cotton.

Wind in my lips, I lay unshielded in the street and listened:
heard the howls of a train.

The stars unlocked their lidless eyes
and whispered:


1 comment:

  1. This reminds me of almost fantasy sort of steampunk images mixed somehow bizarrely with flashes of concepts from Harry Potter. Why? I do not know. But I kinda like it. I couldn't have created that sort of mix in a million years.

    The ideas and words are really aesthetically pleasing. But I honestly have no idea what in the world it means. So instead of gushing about the usual fantastic imagery and use of detail to characterize an object, I'm gonna ask you about this one in person.