Luck in the long run a hat in a tree;
you pick and you patch - snatch
at the colors of whispers,
Dimes in the dust; but a stillness
still sweetens the sky, and you know it,
calling home over the water,
Red leaves flying loosely around you,
and the cold collecting
where you meant to light.
When you come to the end of your stones,
they'll sack you up sideways to go,
now your disguise slips from your bones,
chalk to flash on in the dark.
Emery
George
THE FANS
It's no longer purely a matter of caution.
They've long since given up on safety, I'm sure.
Now it's terror in the halls of the institute;
the old, the blind get tangled on the cords.
See those two tall, old-fashioned standalones?
The blind lady lets out her flowing yellow hair;
as on a bridge of gleaming, revolving steel
after rain, she slips on a ray oflight.
Sitting upstairs, she waits for her lovers,
caught among the thorns, clinging like ivy,
you explain, while we see white tile walls, shuffling
patients, hear whispers, a fluttering kitchen door.
What will make them well? Is it gentle waiting
in the wings, while that lion sound goes on,
and nothing will stop these plants from bending, bending?
Or is it constraining acts? How are we to stay clear?
