We’ve got this problem. It holds
us in its mouth like piece of candy.
The cave is dark and breaths wet
air. Am I white or black, wood or
fat? I keep my thoughts in clouds,
but how crazy do you have to be
to think you could ever be real?
Your father was a clock maker
and your mother was carving knife.
Mine was a whirlwind and a song.
We both escape to be trapped.
The clouds conspire and thoughts
rain down like soft silver bullets.
All along the coasts guards post
flares, search the shore for missing
puppets and prophets. Hear their
hardware slap their thighs. See
the darkness in their dilated eyes.
We hold each other inside. We
know the white outside swims
in icy water. You say, “beluga,”
and get tangled in your own strings.
The cosmos commands me to say
important things which scare me
to say. Leave me sick on the beach,
while you drift with the sticks
out beyond the blue, blue, blue.
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