in the caves
of white salt
we are breathing
our bronchioles
are opening
translucent
crystals of the
abandoned sea
we are maturing
sprinkling blue light
of the spectrum
amplified light
we are seeing now
stimulated emissions
unknown shiftings
beyond the spectrum
i am hearing
dust of the polluted ocean
we are powerful
Every time I walk in the woods
I am anxious until I see
The random flower
Assuring me these woods will be here
Tomorrow.
With all the talk of global change
I am conscious that I am becoming
A hypochondriac
And my phobia is not water
Rising over the boundary of sand
To submerge the city
There can be no other strategy
For spring cleaning
The violence and greed stains
Like the horroe on Macbeth's hand
My horror is not that
But rather my lung dessicated
Gasping, choking on the gravel of atmosphere
After the sun like a pump has sucked
All the air out of the bronchioles of leaves.
O when I come this way again
Please let that last little flower be there.
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