There is a beetle trying to emerge
from my brain. Its stick-legs squirm
and prick the membranes in my head.
When on rainy nights I walk and fall
into sewer drains, it opens its shell
and releases its wings. The fluttering tips
feather my waxy ear canals but rushing
water floods and drowns the buzzing. I dry
and keep on walking, trying
to find an air of truth.
Author: Michael Angelo
-
A Bug in a City
-
Lost Woods
There is a child
in the woods
There is a childHis hair is leaf
his smile is waterIn his cradle of beech and maple
he rocks to an evening lullabyHis eyes are sunset and horizon
his breath the hazy skyBefore his mind slips into a sleeve of stars
he turns his head to say goodnight—but the owls have left.
The fireflies have darkened their lights.
The crickets sit like silent gargoyles.
The leaves have hardened into frost.There is a child
There is a child
There are no woods.
-
Sleepwalkers
What does snow
mean to sleepwalkers?What is it
for grass to freeze
into fractal shards
of air,
for breeze to slow, for time
to crystalize?When powdery particles collect
in the nooks of trees—
When silver sleet
stills atop a slumbering street,
do walkers stop,
breathe,
and take a chance to wake
from hasty heat?Or does it never snow
in dreamless sleep?
