Wednesday, October 13, 2010

Lost Cowbells

Lost Cowbells

Penelope took my bones, washed
them in the clear stream of patina lyrics. 
This world is no longer the same loving
heap of dusk.  It is full of man-made
fireflies and lost cowbells.  I see myself
ever so far from the children—with
no one clawing at my clawing thighs,
aged by the legends of the sun: 
Love is a nine-life gigolo who
walks aloof and priggish.

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