Wednesday, April 11, 2007

Monday, or Paper

The young fall hard and fast
Like trees with rings exposed
They turn into loose leaf paper.

Uptown there are windows
Hung on rubber bands
That bounce to shake loose the dirt
And clear up foggy eyes.

I can see the park turned on its side
The roots growing right through.
People wander in, blindfolded.
They have crumbs in their beards
And barbwired waists.

Sometimes in the nuclear winter
Snow falls like cigar ashes
In April, when Christ hides in Easter eggs.
He came back for a minute you’ll recall
To spoil the surprise and kiss his mother
And tell Judas he understands,
Standing over the traitor’s fresh grave.

When the sun finally appears
And my feet are warm,
It is the summer again.
I let my face catch the ultraviolet
Like the palm of a hand
And my nose breathes sidewalk steam.
Cars roar by and the calendar pages
Covered in little numbered cages
Fall off their metal spiral.

My blood is dusty and blows
Away like smoke.
On Monday I will shrivel into paper.
I will take my coat and hat and ride the train
The wrong way from here.

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