Thirty five minutes out,
twenty eight minutes in.
Three thousand breaths out,
three thousand sparks alight within.
Watch the lightning ride
the hill crests and outline
the backs of dinosaurs sleeping
through the wind breaks,
huddling noses to their tails and
dreaming stories in rhyme scheme's
measure less known by ear or
heart since the top of the world burned away and flowered
into warm blood. The cold
is toothless though the mouth spreads wide
where the street light hides its face and the sidewalk
sinks into marble stones and standing water
rippling in its vigil for stars.
Climbing the bones, the rising scales of harmony
promising frosted fingertips
there will be a spread palm
waiting pressed against the prison glass
between earth and space,
there is level ground
that wonders what it's like
to fall asleep in the meadow land flats
hugging New York City
before the day dream falls away
as steeply and
skipping down the black vertebrae
to where the head lies still and snoring,
unmoved by heart's combustion and
rain's footfalls besides,
the sparks pour out of me in jagged clouds and
broken crank shaft shards. The hills of Pittsburgh
sleep on and I run through the dream,
part dinosaur, part boy, part astronaut, part machine.
