The
city traffic keeps going like a bicycle chain, and the clowns in the
circus walk on giant
beach
balls. I never look out the window, but it makes no odds, the thing keeps
going.
Whoa,
she played till the keys were flying off the piano like slates in a
hurricane;
avalanche
of blades in
dust; will she be there when it stops, I wondered; she was, picking
crystals
from a
lunar landscape that,
for all the world, were
bits of her
broken surface.
That
night a meteorite, flashing across the sky, stopped above my house to
wonder
where
it was headed. In that few seconds, it lost its momentum, the flame
went out
and
I saw it no
more.
No comments:
Post a Comment