Lightly Creeps My Father’s Wagon

We all wake up a little creased
We’re all broken by the rules,
We cannot be pure in
Coca cola,
Our dreams are whiskey and ice.

Lightly creeps my Father’s wagon,
And blood moon
The undertow.

The palm leaves torn like pages,
We are loving like foreign animals,
Live between the lines of storms
And poetry,
To find our hearts, what a thing,
Alone in the wet dust
And ink.

There is a crippled road where
No trucks pass,
A forgotten drum that leads man
To the heart of the forest
And stone ceremonies.
An eagle feather freely given
Cannot touch the ground.

A distant fear like pollution
Or murder, cuts when the
Path is clearest.

Sometimes in the morning time
I like to write my first thoughts,
They’re like babies
In a pond,
Looking back to their mother.

A sweeter page with light strokes
Of poison. Dawn chorus;
Stirring chaos, the hum
Between the anvil and the hammer,
A swallow in flight
And frozen dreams of Venus,
Where the lightning fingers
The tattered flags
And his eyes are clearest,
His touch is static and faceless.


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