Jason Wilkinson




the sun was here
but now
tennis courts are dying
softly beneath our feet/
will soon be smashed up
in dreams; willowy
flesh disappearing in
a sheet of forgotten light
among the brick+piss
giving head
behind tinted windows
what we dream by day
phantoms become
pictures when we sleep
become meritless when we rise
yawn yawn yawn
ring ring ring
smokestacks and nail
polish hug the sunlit street.


Copyright 2004 Jason Wilkinson.  All Rights Reserved.


Back Home Next