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Any Surface |
They line up to trade cigarettes, look at their feet.
In the cold they rub their hands as if to start a fire.
But what is fire under any surface? A long window
sneaks up from behind to frame their backs like
dominos, so easy to topple. A gust of wind or
the exhaust of a car driving by is all it takes. Too
early for traffic, though, and they've all walked
to work. They line up to trade cigarettes, look at
their feet. In the cold they light matches with their
teeth. The windows sneaking up frame their backs
like dominos, so easy to topple. The sky flares
gold, turns them black. Too early for traffic,
though. They line up to trade cigarettes, look at
their feet. In the cold their hands could start a fire
-what fire? Windows frame their backs, but who
looks back? Under any surface, even glass. They
line up to trade hands, look at nothing. The sky
flares gold, dominos. A woman and she's beautiful -
her soul out of nothing-sleeps on sand.
copyright 2006
Timothy
Green |
