Friday, September 10, 2010

Fragmented Cloud on a Sunday Morning Flight



Fragmented Cloud on a Sunday Morning Flight


In the middle of blue skies
I see a cloud so old 
it wants to sail to Timbuktu,
Timbuktu and rain.

Emily keeps calling the bees.
She wants to blame them for not hiding
the joy of their last flight.

No happiness is greater
than the flight taken to the glitter
of your own flower.

Where is Eden?
Is there a hammock there?
Can we sing and never cut down trees?

Eden from the clouds
looks like fancy food, food
rushing through river of dreams

while the dead back-crawl
to the table where men sit
and forcibly bend to eat.

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