| you are standing
in a field of cats'
tails.
they do not wave
in the wind; instead
the tails
cut the wind and
communicate to
you;
they seem to remember, prehensile
and tendon, flesh and
cartilage,
the tails are soft and
curve
out of the earth;
seemingly the same,
dark and striped;
"look closer",
"we are different,
but one" in a great silent
chorus--
like an earthly
anemone,
you think.
and at first it is droll
they are soft
and novel
but here paralysis settles
with a great and slow
weight
the sting starts seeming
like only feeling
home
the surrealism circuit breaker blows
and so your eyes try to open yet
this is not a dream unless dreams are real
you are still standing in a field
of cats'
tails--
"and the scythe-man
will be on down the trail
when comes up the bloodshot
sun."
"save us". |
