Sunday, April 18, 2010

NaPoWriMo Number Eighteen


We lie flightless at the burial
of a president, as mugabe calls
for an end to violence. The stone house is
turning thirty swept over victoria still raging
about race, while we are caught
in smallness in biomass ninety percent
of us are microscopic respirations of
aquatic. And a cricket master is quitting when
washington is assessed three hundred thousand
washingtons in fines, but timbuktu has divined
legacies in hidden words, as airports are
in crisis the pope still prances around litanies of
shame and regret.

No comments:

Post a Comment