The feet of leaves wander the wind,
the tomtom of rain troubles the roof.
The dry cackle of reckless fire
burns behind the children's laughter
as they run through the season.
We hunger & thirst for the things
we have lost.
A book opened to tragedy,
a window blind to the taste
of wet dust, a dream behind open
eyelids, the war within ones soul.
What a paradox of worlds—different,
yet the same. We hunger & thirst
for the things we have lost.
Who knows why the airplane
never folded it's wings for
the dive? Who heard the earth
chirrup to the moon?
Is it true that each race knows
their maker? Is it true
that each god is a junkie
high on human blood? Come now,
who has no questions in their head?
Who has all the answers? We hunger
& thirst for the things
we have lost.
Look, the joy in the blush
of sunset, the rains trapped
in the mirrored wonder of rotten
puddles, the leaves clinging
to droplets before they lose
that miracle, the trees swollen
like turgid streams & pregnant
evenings. There's hope somewhere
near; a cricket stretching
it's zither for the night.
There's a dream in a firefly's anus.
We hunger & thirst for the things
we have lost.
