In fields, sounds of gospel preached by Barnabas
and coins swapping hands,
sadly all ending in stoning,
and I notice how afraid my tongue has become
that I will turn into a prevaricator.
It is around 23 degrees and mostly sunny
and while 500,000 people escape an Iraqi city
the plates and forks are stacking up outside the kitchen,
adding clutter.
Nevermind the fact that I know who I was when
I got up this morning, but I think I must have
been changed several times since then.
We can rest absolutely assured that the moon
ate its own smile last night in spite of itself.
In Washington DC, circulation of traffic
mirrors the American citizen bloodflow.
I ought not to be drinking this icy mixture,
but rum and berry juice at dawn blends well with sleepless.
As time goes on, we'll look back on this and smile
as the coins in our bags,
chiming and falling to the ground,
are spinning on
new
stepping
stones.