Trash

© 2003 M.N.
All rights reserved.

We lay like trash: lies separated by trees
and leafless flesh, less memory in voice and water;

voices that remain soft without laughter,
heaviness inflicted by the slight pressure
of hand and the piercing of eyes.

Colliding with snow the southern sun
hides. All it can do is hide and
wait for a better day to be born.

Dust claws, its fingers dig into sea's back
like crystal, crystallised blood upon
a dead butterfly with wings in the water.

Life's got its wings in the water, its lips
dead inside winter.
Our voices reflect the dripping eyesight.

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