A table lined with women

and girls

and gray chairs with wool

on which

clothes of the color of stars on

American evil

that the sweetest

most innocent thing

was cloaked in and

sat with curiosity

A leaf makes shingles cave over

A pin will knock a tightrope walker

And a hair overflows the water beaker



A's cut from B by a line of fleas

while string divides it from C

In vain one may be slain with pain

while working hard does thee



The weight of rock can't be forgot

Even through fervent pulls of wrought

No gain will rain as bane's sustained;

Pulling such weight makes wings distraught



For a breath may shake the house

An iron spring will snap the mouse

And towels can tear with a single douse

We talk of time like Earth is a desert

with nothing to harvest nor gain

When in reality,

it coats the oceans

and is trapped between every rock



Strangely, we talk of such deprivation

at times when it's grown luxuriant

For there's not much

to do with too much

except ponder how we've so few



Oh what of Humanity

is to come when all is done

and the desert

is teeming

with flora as far as I see?



We talk of time

like we have no time at times when we've nothing but.

A clock whose beat is tuned out

clicks its seconds like rocks

pounding and falling on each other;

the little patter of piles of stones



The train whistles its trumpet

as the wheels click and clack

on the track of iron bars and wood

and roars like a lion of steel



Crunching of her foot on the stairs

of old creaking planks of spruce

and padding of coarse carpet

before the creaking of rusty hinges



The wind resembles the humming

of the alien fridge, so native

Both strum chords of one note

to the ignored beat of the clock



So I sit.

An eagle bound to Earth

its feathers tethered to

the ground.

His cry would break glass;

None paid heed, the sound



He used the weight for reps

Flap, flap to make his wings

stronger.

The rock that holds him

will soon no longer.



Burden subsided, he

soars high up in the

sky free.

And heaviness leaves

him to be happy.



But strength had

never come

freely.

My poetry

reflects like broken glass

and a sheet

That little piece of

glass

had the power to pull

everything in me

down