The Lungs Of The Mountain
The days are pumped forth from the lungs of the mountain Good morning! watch as the heaviest cloud falls into frost The wolves crawl from dreams into forrest and field Skinny, charming, and sore with the loss of a death in the family The plague of blisters that keep is stretched in the sun Moaning poetry and song, without pants, solid and lying in gravel We illustrate our selves as if we were ghosts, and I love this We swap words like we were swapping lice and disease If this were war we would be friends, or lovers, dead or alone The nights are governed by the eyeless and the armless The sheets are torn into strips, turned into ribbons and tied to branches Venus looks down as she smells the crushed bay leaf She wonders how it feels to keep a record of time and history Fires burn with fuel collected by different generations The angry, the resigned, the creaky, the one frightened of direction Birds make their nests on the ground, in the quartz and the soil Shell fish are ...