June 18, 2008

Crost Bridges

In every background, a rathery
heat. One can never predict
what fire will allow in
a country of this type.
The rider of a mechanical
horse greets me saying, The edge
is painted orange and on the other

Side, a paper-mache question mark.
Have you read the news
yet? (That's my friendly
impulse to just talk.) I don't have
a chair, thinks the one standing
up who's taking notes,
a small package of knowledge.

In a mechanical fire (sleep)
I had a mechanical dream
speak to me
in a blur of bluish watery
motion. Outside, a cry from the cold
(like peacocks) rang,
What's in that bag, your soul?

The things I say to fire,
I say. Whatever the wind
tells me to say. A fretful message
moves down a string. Something
big, just the sky. Just a feather
carried by air, an ambulator
crosses to the other

Side. The cockroachy ambitions
of the father (the father in
a book I know) caused him to sight
fast apparitions, moving zigzags.
In the race for parents, there were no
winners. I speak as a light-
weight in the world of woe.

—Robin Reagler

Posted by dwaber at June 18, 2008 01:33 PM