Saturday, December 22, 2012

Thousand: Nine Hundred Seventy

A new perseverance will climb onto the bus, work its way to the back, brushing knees and packages and chickens. There won’t be a seat at the table, for every seat will be piled with papers and the numbers track the decline of moralists. Put yourself in place, the long place empty of cats and beer cans. The pigeon understands art. Moths drink the tears of orphan elephants. It is harder being blind, the lame girl says, touching the corn, the corn’s damp beard. The rain lays into the grain, the weight of it pressing toward the common earth. Shh.

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