The lift’s darkness is water in quarry pit
His eyes take bath in it, in the leaning.
The lift mimes the silence of mine in flood
Around faces in an excruciating black coal
As they die of rushing waters of a silence.
They gurgle in the waters in rising bubbles,
Mining its silence and inspector looks on.
They sport in a gallery, the dark glasses
On pretty noses, bare shoulders sport red
A gaggle of market men go wild with joy
At the pantomimes of other people’s play
In giant projectors with phantom players
Coming from a world’s end with red balls.
If they run you run and when they squirm
In their pants, in your living room’s corner
You squirm in your pants, red and dead.
The argument goes on endlessly in halls
In grounds like a salivary thread flowing
From silky spider-work in home corners.
In argument we conquer the world in cup.
We are playing our little dramas in our head
That is how the thing plays out in our script.
Our script is black comedy, a fun thing we play
When we are desperate about people we love.
It is a sound that comes through a child
A child of the earth from a climbed wall,
By a tree of leaves plucked into pockets
For worship of a stone god in vermilion
And yellow softness of a beginning god.
It is god nestled in a heap of yellow rice.
It is my women of rustling silks of the air,
A fragrance of worship flowers and flame.
It is the flame that dies in floral fragrance
But re-lives to verify my continued living.
As we think we expand sideways and up;
The body falls as the mind floats in ether.
The tree and we exist in the same plane
As its golden leaves fall we too fall in bits.
Now there is the kid expected to pick up
Expecting plastic colors from underbrush.
Plastic colors are our colors of expecting.
Expecting stops as plastic gets picked up.
Kid has gone,a bird has crouched and gone.
In comes train raising expectancy in words.
Its bird goes up and down on phone wires
Its lights are painting shadows on bushes,
Bushes are expecting in crickets creaking.
Night is expecting things, not just trains.
Night is expecting other nights, other days.
There is wind in the leaves on the floor.
Big busy red ants are crawling up a bark.
The sky looks like rain will come and hail.
The water sounds there as if falling off
The slanting roof but it is striped squirrel
Or some love- pigeons shuffling feet on it.
Here I wait in the front porch of my house
Afraid the milk has boiled over in kitchen.
Footsteps can be drowned in dewed leaves.
God, I am unable to go to check the milk.