Sight Seeing

From my English cottage I can see America. Éire sings, as it labors in my field of vision, it's drunk on nostalgia as usual. A great sail-winged albatross glides across from one eye to the other. The trip to Ohio is a drawn-out unmusical note in a leaky squeeze box. From my Midwest window I can see the top of a Walmart roof, it has a beauty all of its own. Morning and evening, snow white seagulls fly in from Atlantis, a dreaming place that only appears when the sun perches upon puffy eyelids. In a twilit garden (a place where paper roses wrestle with living thorns), time circles seeking its way past another day. The days hitchhike on my shoulder, I must travel across the luna surface of my mind. One deep breath should be enough to push me just beyond the city dump.