There is a mountain of snow
behind the glen of automobile bones.
Grass need tamped down
with dancing feet
beneath the beating sun.
Hot, hot without shoes and
it was on fire when I laid down and
pressed my cheek to iron. The ghost things
brushed my arms when the wind blew.
Dandelion thoughts. Ticklish
always. Giggle and try not to sweat
in the shadow of the beast.
It will all be glass soon.
The other shoe will drop and
shatter the reflections behind my eyelid.
The glare in the eye
I keep open while I sleep.
The sound of return of the painted dinosaur
is a lot like the sound of a shell
dropped at one's feet
on a toenail,
managing to skit away
to hit find its clack against an ocean polished rock.
Cymbal crash and sand
stand watch while tears roll
down my face to caress
the corners of my lips
beneath the hair.
The sun beats
and the waves speak
and people disappear one by one along the march.
The ship makes friends with the sky.
The clouds shake hands.
Jellyfish die.
The shell remains.
Near toes. To pick it up, to hear.
Already hot enough to burn fingertips to history and
laugh. Scorn. Who can I hurt? Come play with me,
from the deep the beach vibrates with a whale song.
