Tiptoe (In A Quiet City)

the creaking floor
unbrushed dust under husks
of dead bugs in the window sills glistening
wind blows, quiet / mercy / set for sailing days
little boy dreams if freedom
instilled with science
sirens, always sirens
in the dark hours
the bodies fall
like clock points
like victimless heroes
laid out to be weathered by the caustic rains

peaches gleam
in the repetition of harvest
captured in this painting
creatures scurry by in the measured hush
of the silos
the pomegranates crushed under
hooves of horses marching in random figures
ghosts of cowboys
riding leather and burlap carpets
dancing in the sky
in ethereal antiquity
riding into silence
sun forgotten trees.

autumn early
here now to earth
any one thing
kept in stasis
too long
left for
forgetting
laughter
running
jumping
standing
barely
quiet
eventually. /

Sounds-Like

Silvery metal spikes
pierced the darkness
of an unlit mind.
And in blackness,
Where all thought forms
A hand reached out and down.
Hands made of silver
and hands made of fire.
Disappearing over and over
like silver arrows in a stream,
like brushstrokes that paint away
the years of confusion
and lost desire.
demons banished to limbo,
defeated by 10,000 guitar notes...
or one Durutti Column solo.