Mercedes Lawry





Into the tunnel, smoky green haunting the edges,
a linger of oil, of cold desperation,
sour dreams spiral down into bones,
into crevices where soul and flesh create shadows,
where nobody’s left to turn away.

The pale birds nod their heads, eyes
spitting here and there, as if they might,
in a sudden burst, swoop to peck at what looks like food.

Coughs, rough and harsh, razored and racked,
moans, sighs, screams, night music
races down the alleys, under the highways,
mixing with the tidal clank of cars.

Where’s the sweetness in this Dante dream,
this damned and hopeless place of no connection.
What’s the use of thinking past the moment,
or memory, what’s the game, what’s the purpose
of a hollow explanation. Let the moon climb
and the blackness fall, this uneasy sleep brings no repose,
this truth is nothing after all.


Copyright © 2004 Mercedes Lawry.  All Rights Reserved.


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