our earth is sometimes very small
sometimes no larger than a moth
and the blackbird is the night
and stars are the dust
that float in the sunshine
til man begins to measure his lifetime
in light years
rather than in words
no way out of the laughing mouth
no way in to the fingertips
and the landlord and his wife
before they go to sleep
every night they turn in their beds
and shake hands
like past lives
in the book they just read
I cannot move, my mouth is locked
I want to breath, please cut the lines
of the sky where I lost the keys
where the blueflies
tapdance against the soft breeze
and the sunrise
and the nonsense
of the nearest star

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