Friday, November 6, 2015

out west.

way out west in deserts,
or forests of nectarines,
the youths stuff smoke 
and fingers into their hunger,
as youths do,
and the sun sets
into some awfully far horizon.
way out west,
the clouds huddle for warmth
and static crackles,
blistering down their backs
and through a million glass windows,
kissing eyes in thin disguises,
watering over lives 
we knew
in time, 
would wash away with
sands from every shore.
way out west,
nothing ever changes, it's 
the same arrangements,
the same sets of eyes in the same
faces staring at distorted images
in door knobs and begonia bouquets.
it's the same unrest in cheap homes
and rooms, with winds blowing past
alleys and corners in towns 
and skies they knew.
way out west,
the ungainly palms wave,
heavy like our hearts with salt.