this morning in the
pantry our hearts were
bread stale.
and our eyes
were not wide opened
as they used to be.
facing the sunrise window
moon wheels revolve on your
street market clock.
no longer counting red
tides or blue.
when you'd slam the
door a second time
slam to be heard
and walk into a cloud
of fire just to punt and
stir the flame.
you understand
in a language built of
deadened monosyllables,
gracelessly
swallowed down
with analgesics
that our eyes are
not wide opened
as they used to be.

05 sep 01