Wednesday, February 13, 2008
the trees haven't yet figured out why we get lonely
the trash man sleeps on a bed of burning candles. he keeps moonlight in his pocket, and when he dreams it sings to him. his teeth are peach pits. his collar bone is an aluminum can. his smile is his halo. in the middle of the night he listens to the motorcycles whine from beneath the freeway. and if it is late enough they sound to him like bed sheets, turning beneath a lover's back as she rolls toward him, an ocean of softness, wanting to touch him, even in her sleep.