phaeath

Bricks and boards are clumsy poems
always silent at 4am; sticks and stones
are messy too. For millennia
birds have been singing to the gumshoes of Atlantis,
happy owners of saturnian genitalia.
Satori is just a middle-class idyll
with occasional 911 calls
and liquid wine corks to play with in the morning.
Courteous clay creatures dance on the roof
unable to erase the vultures from the sky.
They hang their pants and shirts on the tree branches
and forget about them till tomorrow.
Their names, too long to remember,
could bore holes in the firmament
if they had neither th nor ph in them.

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