We need rain, you bet, clouds
promise wind jazz, play low.
How risky, annihilation’s here
on the street, gaping holes.
Facts are round as reality
breathing like faithful dogs.
Generations stage burning thoughts,
the audience crosses its legs.
May your erasures rise
above stings and dreams,
the friendly palm,
mornings of machines.
Afterwards what’s claimed
(no-one knows).
- Jill Jones
from Shampoo. a great magazine of contemporary poetry at http://www.shampoopoetry.com/shampoothirtyeight/jones.htm
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