From The Poets Laboratory

Wings are eyelids. A mind can be left aside on a workbench while the brain teaches the sky to sleep. Mother lives in a jar in an old curiosity shop. Father enters the world bringing extinct words he has found in the future. Your child is not yours; it is a god you found in a self-help book. You create symbols, give them meaning, sell them for nothing. Invisible pennies drop from the hands of a beggar. The laboratory smells of lilacs it is your mothers favorite color, purple gives her a headache. You build talking machines, they march up and down on spindly metal legs, their feet tap-dance. Here you are a family of one, the solar system lives in one eye, the other is a deep space where poetry births its many ghosts, they arrive as a blue flame when you ignite the rocket fuel in your Bunson burner.