Where this cotton used to be

I imagine a dancing body

In one deck of playing cards a lifetime concert:

Spanish guitars and stickers, laughing white weeds.

Where this cotton used to be: peanuts.

I am filled with strange blood, I am armed with Bermuda.

Save the fireflies, cut the lights on.  What is with these broken wings,  this chorus of cordless feet  movin the marvelous words pulling weeds:

Irrigation pipes and engines, an intricate pulse-maze.

Where this crop circle used to be: a manger.

I see the song in the flesh, the lightest rug and see-through face; facsimile nation, leash this broken star, enliven graves.  What is with this pool of scenery,  these symbols and holy human shadows?

What is with this place?

Chris Weige | Somewhere on Earth | Share a key intuit