alien notes
old suns, desolate breakfasts,
days turning on stiles, later
a trudge ending in a box
re-spelling obtuseness
words on words
soft as soufflé he hardly tasted—
so he left grinding dust, seeking
flashes in the desert
why songs fly
to him now sneaking between dawn
and moaning, silences between
gaping eyes the dead leave on strings, he
draws answers from skies,
grumbling about bomb spores--
songs he plucks off storms
alien to his longings
on his waist solid
steel tips waiting to fly
this sentinel
of rock burrowing on sands
lets old suns free
on his guitar
Alegria Imperial
Posted over on Poets Against The War
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