They Are Marching

 They are marching

where the red flowers bloom

They are marching and sometimes stoop to gather

the white and fallen fragments of the moon

They are sleeping

and dying with the hours

they are sleeping and hallucinating sweetly

white swans and lilies in their bowers

They are falling

where bones turn into pennants

They are falling like the spines of dusty hymnals

where angels count forgetfulness as penance.

Port Of Call

Hey sailor,
this is the lunch counter
anyone can sit at.

Hey handsome,
buy a girl a soda?
They'll bring one glass, two straws.

Tell me, Lonesome,
why aren't you in the bar? Do the stools there
pitch and yaw?

Too bad, swabbie,
about the girl you left behind.
Do ya miss her? Do I remind you of?

Listen, sugar,
set your sea bag down. Noah knew
--bet you do, too--
that a pigeon is still a dove.
______

for "escape to the past" at Real Toads