Sunday, May 6, 2007

Free Cutaway Night

After the dirt wakes up and you slip your open shoes, try to cut the black sky in your side with silver, to make an absence of sun a pagan crucifixion, a new lightning bug, the hole in the tin lid pierced with a nail too wide; let him climb, open the carapace, hold the wings, palm up, to the tops of the tree and the crossbars of the telephone pole, bleeding creosote; lift to the rust and black of the light, the monster green of the glow smeared across the white heart of your t-shirt, the long heat, the red coin, the free cutaway night.