Sunday, October 24, 2010
Lungs
Lungs are the forests of the body, pegged
at the bleeding edge of a sponge: lungs are an image
sandwiched between broccolis of meat.
Lungs are lawns pocked with bunkers
Radiating out from the heart of the club.
Lungs are El Niño, Singapore Sling, Beelzebub.
Lungs are a chameleon. Then they’re not.
Lungs are a decision tree. Lungs are a drop
of dye dripped
in a glass of water. Lungs are the tip
of an iceberg ... not. Lungs are your internal air bag,
useless in a crash. Lungs make you
a wine flask. A blushful Hippocrene.
Caverns measureless to man.
Lungs are the forests of the body, pegged
at the bleeding edge of a sponge: lungs are an image
sandwiched between broccolis of meat.
Lungs are lawns pocked with bunkers
Radiating out from the heart of the club.
Lungs are El Niño, Singapore Sling, Beelzebub.
Lungs are a chameleon. Then they’re not.
Lungs are a decision tree. Lungs are a drop
of dye dripped
in a glass of water. Lungs are the tip
of an iceberg ... not. Lungs are your internal air bag,
useless in a crash. Lungs make you
a wine flask. A blushful Hippocrene.
Caverns measureless to man.
Song for a Neglected God
When God left the
church at five
he took his golden revolver and
headed for the meadows
for target practice.
At about
ten, he headed
home
to his wife
and children
passing
in his car
a row of willows.
When God left the
church at five
he took his golden revolver and
headed for the meadows
for target practice.
At about
ten, he headed
home
to his wife
and children
passing
in his car
a row of willows.
Friday, October 22, 2010
Lungs
Lungs are the forests of the body, pegged
At the bleeding edge of a sponge: an image
Sandwiched between broccolis of meat.
Lungs are lawns pocked with bunkers
Radiating out from the heart of the club house.
Lungs are El Niño, Beelzebub, Singapore Sling.
Lungs are a chameleon. Then they’re not.
Lungs are a decision tree.
Lungs are a drop of dye dropped
in a glass of water. Lungs are the tip
of an iceberg. Not. Lungs are your internal air bag,
useless in a crash. Lungs make you
a wine flask. A blushful Hippocrene.
Caverns measureless to man.
Lungs are the forests of the body, pegged
At the bleeding edge of a sponge: an image
Sandwiched between broccolis of meat.
Lungs are lawns pocked with bunkers
Radiating out from the heart of the club house.
Lungs are El Niño, Beelzebub, Singapore Sling.
Lungs are a chameleon. Then they’re not.
Lungs are a decision tree.
Lungs are a drop of dye dropped
in a glass of water. Lungs are the tip
of an iceberg. Not. Lungs are your internal air bag,
useless in a crash. Lungs make you
a wine flask. A blushful Hippocrene.
Caverns measureless to man.
Tuesday, October 05, 2010
Eyes
If the eye were a person, would it see?
Or would it remain blind to avoid redundancy?
But evolution’s not like that. An extra organ comes in handy.
When threading a needle, for instance.
Or when you are lost in a hurricane.
The day has millions in summer, as many as the flies
mobbing your mouth as you hike across the meadows.
Whatever it is, the eyes have it.
If the eye were a person, would it see?
Or would it remain blind to avoid redundancy?
But evolution’s not like that. An extra organ comes in handy.
When threading a needle, for instance.
Or when you are lost in a hurricane.
The day has millions in summer, as many as the flies
mobbing your mouth as you hike across the meadows.
Whatever it is, the eyes have it.
