20 years ago, two girls waved
to the vanishing man in his vortex
while his wife smeared blood on her lips
before the heap of compost started to tear
black bag of human garbage clinging
to his back, all of our emptying baggage
that he pushed on rusted swings,
rocked in synthetic carriages.
But his journey was diving & running
and he didn’t have space for all these poking limbs
He’ll leave them at the airplane’s entrance
and fold the tearing bag into his pocket
A wrinkled souvenir of the limited places
the splitting ocean would let him occupy.
Jan 18, 2015
Jan 18, 2015 at 8:21 PM UTC
20 years ago, two girls waved
to the vanishing man in his vortex
while his wife smeared blood on her lips
before the heap of compost started to tear
black bag of human garbage clinging
to his back, all of our emptying baggage
that he pushed on rusted swings,
rocked in synthetic carriages.
But his journey was diving & running
and he didn’t have space for all these poking limbs
He’ll leave them at the airplane’s entrance
and fold the tearing bag into his pocket
A wrinkled souvenir of the limited places
the splitting ocean would let him occupy.
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