by Cliff Saunders
In plain sight the windows are making us deaf.
Now we talk about being minus a soul and weep
over sparks jumping between two ruby slippers.
We are a people of love who’ve fallen into holograms
of Stonehenge. Our daily bread hurts more than we knew.
As we channel-surf through time, we need to save
a wide-open field for us now where fire can live forever.
We have to trust the latest skin in the game.
We are tango for saxophone, rain in Cincinnati,
the year’s last supermoon. Shrouded in mystery,
we’re only one chance in the wild. We must become
dark paths of imagination that veer from train whistles.
Our little arch of silence must serve us well.
In fact, we have an obligation to paper the August moon
with deep grieving. We are in full bloom, like roses
climbing the wall of faith, growing too fast.
