2017 05 24
Thick branches of the flower bush that blooms
beside old red-brick library protects
the weeping bird of my heart who returns
when sunlight on asphalt sidewalk reveals
the unmapped contours of my random life,
so I stand guard over ancient archives
where every book ever written shines hidden
on locked shelves in the winding labyrinth
of our memories, so I climb the mountain
where Apollo drank light from the horse fountain
and taught me how to sing spells of our eyes
that hurl nuclear rainbows from empty skies.
I leave the book of my songs on the table
where children assemble puzzles of truth.