A tempest, 

a hasty knock, 

swept away, planks and branches,

drenched by a collapsing sight. 

There's only one window to pass through

for an airplane to crash onto,

for sleet, for icebergs,

for bullets,

for nothing at all. 

 

At least, you're now a ghost.

No hesitation, only

a little bit nervous.

Arrived by a mosquito bite, 

emerald columns, emerald storm

arrive with caves and branches 

and planks,

bouncing low behind your invisible sentence. 

Chirp of the canopy; i've been here.

I've been here

waiting for you

 

behind your translucent hair. 

Every rest has been taken

from that car wreck on the wheat field.

Warm, a turbulence in the drawing.

Crayons crash on the opaque

plane; Around you.

Lightnings,

asteroids among the streams of silent pines. 

I'm pushing them back 

 

to the edges of a disturbed sleep. 

I'm pushing you

to a light that never moves,

a lantern in the core of all

alleys, be it nails, knives;

The cascades under the rusty march 

of a swinging hammer and bone mountains. 

Where they end: a cold sliver of a living room 

where we used to share what we couldn't bear:

the crowns of kings and queens 

of modern leisure. 

 

Lightnings,

shotguns burst among the streams of silent pines.

It ain't their throne,

none of us play it that way. 

It's no one's game, no.

Plastic legs are burning;

It's such an easy exit. 

 

Maybe they'll hold on to their purses

and we'll see a deer jumps over them

breaking a lamp;

Lightnings again. 

 

A tempest,

a soft scent of wet soil,

drenched by tomorrow's dew. 

There's only one window to pass through

for cascades to flow into,

for sleet, for icebergs,

for bullets,

for nothing at all.

 

Turn on the light.