how the wind blows over the river
quite a curious thing, isn’t it,
the way the water rolls in time
with the wind’s hushed music
that echoes
although there is only sky
and water
for it to bounce off of.
how the wind blows over the river
quite a curious thing, isn’t it,
the way the wind whispers longingly
as it streaks over the currents,
reaching in vain for its lover, the water,
screaming
a deep-throated sound
that haunts the riverbanks
forever
looking up at the sky,
i can understand
why ancient people thought
the earth was flat
and the sky was a dome
our own personal snow globe
only,
we're trapped in it.
now we know
When the rivers turn to blood,
we will know
that our violence,
our unending savagery, our cruelty,
things we pass off as normal,
has gone too far.
When the rivers turn to blood,
we will know.
little lions
poking up through the sidewalk cracks
little lions
rambling along the sides of hills
little lions
puffy yellow stars shining like the sun
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