the silence of present isn't much more than a fright
a grumble of the world that cannot stop
even when the windows are closed
when clouds and morning stars
don't cover with heat the shoulders of the child
who sleeps in a corner of the room
but the dreams survive
like an island of garbage in the middle of Pacific Ocean
where a turtle once made love with a bag of plastic
where a broom thought of herself as a medusa
and fell in love with a barracuda
the kind of stuff that happens when the ocean comes
I keep waiting love to turn into a shell where I could lay down
but I can tell by observation that gravity will also hold our bones when the time comes.