Blessed be the curly haired plants
who crisp me into an angry sea
trenched with wedding rings.
Blessed be the Brazilian children
studying thanklessly their juice and
raspberry vodka, before the
lady with the plastic bags like china dolls,
a fifty foot woman made of neon and
condensed milk. I pulled her postcard where
worms mouthed bits of t-shirts, little
eunuchs. I offer her coffee--bless it--
and she tells me, wearing gnat-stained sandals,
about the day the Lord has made.
No comments:
Post a Comment