seven cents worth of mo(u)rning thoughts from the bus
the architecture of display
consists of small bites from my heart.
animal structure, animate house.
if my heart could sing
the song would shelter birds
from the fierce rains of spring.
but my throat is dry
and this land is drier still.
the architecture of despair
is like these great weathered arches
hollow, yet stronger than stone,
yet stone itself.
the architecture of delight
in its platonic glory
is burning in this desert
like some forgotten bush.
the night is striped from me,
stolen. no shelter in the hollow stone,
no rain upon my lips.
I turn away.
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