Friday, April 3, 2015


this machine dreams that blues and whites are grey
reds become brown filtering desire through lines of code

she looked at me across the counter, a white plate in her hand
a blue stripe around the circumference of heaven

the fallen called out from the shade, through the holes
of an old coat, their song a switchblade in the wind

this reverie is more blurred than usual, but it gave me hope
light extended even into the night where my innocence wandered off

the next morning the sky was gold but the motel window gave it grit
and the power lines defied the horizon with their potential

on the bus homeward, the city’s staccato sirens giving way at last
to the highway’s hum, i found her message and anointed it with tears


The Last Sunset

Machine Dreams

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