Friday, 4 December 2009

We Are But Two in Our Circle

The visitors are at Woodstock though the spaceship follows them,
interviews them to donate to the color of their vests.

Charisma is not free and the angle
of one's bow may be paid off

so that humility itself becomes a pastime
for cameras and beginners, to welcome them.

We hold onto the apples too long
and the gift is gone, uneaten.

We say more are orbiting
and there are Fig Newtons in the drawer.

The window facing the hill is covered in geckos
creeping you out.

You say the squeak of mosquitoes is landing,
we are surrounded, the neighboring cabins exhausted.

Friendly hellos shape our first words
and by noon we are checked out, as usual.

Our bodies have done their things,
now we watch the movie

as if we were the lost mother, god herself
come to bump up the ante and bury sadness in the rising energy of the day.