Books, stones and bones

bookboxSM shelfWEB

We still share dreams and sleep in drawers in homes built by carpenters we never knew.   Floorboards still hum inside of them. When I look out the window I still the birds spelling out phrases as they touch ground to reach for worms through the grass, between the life-size dead. Nets lift from landscapes, holding dark clouds, centuries, weather satellites, fish, shells, birds, bees, twigs and drums. They seep with song, humming, buzzing, howling. Static, silence heresy. They float around the room.

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *