Old Life

 

Sitting beneath bare skies
Counting stars at the bottom of a bottle
Strumming chords,
Waiting for the branches to bend
Words falling into laps
Like inheritance from God


At last a shadow appears
From among the chaos and ruin
A perfect little stone
Unmoved by the hand or throne
Collecting stars
From the bottom of a bottle
Kept safe, unhidden
In the soft flow of belly ache


That was an old life
Full of idleness, songs
& desperation


In a true dream
She counts herself to sleep
Backwards,
Until the numbers fade like stretched tape
Unable to escape
The cruel fate of one shut eye


He roamed like a wild boar
Digging in, piling on
Hating the sun
For its foresight of vision,
For its Sunday schemes
& Monday traditions


Songs crossed and circled,
Swam and slept
On willing laps
Adapted
For future decisions and
Past collective spats


On the promise of a flood
She drove herself wild,
Formed pools below her body
Which he bottled hurriedly


That was an old life
Full of Idleness and music,
Mystery and collapse,
A dance across the waist of a slim chance
Clothed in desperation,
Dressed to kill