Permutations
the blood has turned to red sand
I look at the shape of my hands
and wonder about the day
when they, too, will revert back
to the red sands I marched upon
as a youth
on the table the grapes shine
with the afternoon sun
and shadows of the day draw long
and indistinct
as I look for some semblance of
the shadow that was mine
it's not that I'm dying
it's that everyone is dying
the graveyard is full of plastic bags
caught in the trees
fluttering a song in the breeze
the skeletons wearing rags
the crust of the earth yawns, simpers
content to be so saturated with the radiation
from our fragmented thoughts
that spill forth and spend
not a nanosecond
waiting for a response
centripetal force has drawn me here
and as I draw in
resembling an empyrean tortoise
I feel the oxygen that was once used by
someone I loved near the event horizon
now inflating my lobes
cold tea for made from shade trees
the apex of the womb has
moved to an invisible location
that's on a precise point upon a
tangled glove-compartment map
the road to higher skies
I suppose you may mystify yourself
in the wake of a near collision
as everything coils up around your talus
the pleasantries emanating from your lips
meant something
in a parallel universe
a little girl wants her ball back
and the dogs say
come and try to get it
their hunger makes them piercing observers
the sand needs more red today
as far as they're concerned
Copyright © Dennis Sheffer | Year Posted 2009
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