Crooked Silence

Crumbling paper
walls, as frequent as
confused squawks
from a flock of
lost ducks.

Abandoned dirty hood scene,
poles top-heavy
with light.

Night falls, they
lean against
each other. Come

out and play,
he says, with
his chin on his chest;

the soles of his sneakers
lightly graze
the floor. A
grown man walks into the
sunset, back bent,
his shadow sliding

in the opposite
direction. Much of
the film is shown
in silence. The
private journals of
gods are misleading;

the lies they tell themselves
end up as entries
in his own. He crouches
behind his own fingers,
ready to slay sometimes.

The elderly forget
their own names.

This entry was posted on Thursday, April 23rd, 2009 at 6:45 AM and is filed under poetry. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.