And you, O son of man, take a brick and lay it before you, and portray upon it a city..."
dipping toothpicks in golden paint strokes gently on stone and mud packed
o son of man portrayed so carefully much less than cities far more than stars
and thinking of cumulation he packs cells thick with dough and dries them
in the sun burning steam off the surface of his dreams he wears socks nails stones
together and lacing beaded necklaces of sweaty cement heavy around his neck as a city
...........
Burning steam off the surface of his dreams
Cleaning the house with the violence of a
scolding. Fresh paint is like morning, or a
visit from the window washer. Needles at work
at the laundromat, the fruit vendor laying
out oblongs of color, The supermarket
turning on the shoots of cold air. Your
neighbors secrets, so close and so distant.
You do not expect you are the only one
subject to these sensations? Let the grass
bow before each tip of your shoes, let
the light touch every sleeping part of you.
Butter, yellow sticks, yellow rectangles
in the freezer, all peaceful. But peace
maybe is a dead place, isn't heat caused
by motion?
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