The Cursive Guts of Calligraphy Bells





In the dust of nameless flowers, of the cursive guts of calligraphy 
    bells,

What ear can lift silence, from its sleep?
 
The moon, in front of the winter trees, Said,                                                                                                                                                    
All rivers are habits
Swung by gravity,
 
And
Each shadow that lifts a finger
Baffles an integer.
 
Electric footsteps play the guitar, the wind can hear you, science 
    fiction puddles, the tattoos of whodunit, the spacecraft of 
    deserted trees ravenously beatific.
 
In the prance of a quite walk, the city curls in on itself, till it is 
    gone.
 
I leave foot prints ahead of us,
Gaseous clouds
Turning star.
 
And give poetry
To pigeons.
 

2 thoughts on “The Cursive Guts of Calligraphy Bells

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