Melting Jasmine
I am in melting jasmine,
minding the old maids
on corset cling flings,
and minding the folding blue sky,
on edging back my chair to fly.
Will they forget the flying be me?
Will they be clutching a flea?
Will they empty,
the crying be me?
I am in melting jasmine,
winding it high
like a tight rope highway
doing it too shyly,
they are the thunder
on a runway to hell,
and I am the rain bird in a cage,
paging telephone numbers
in the haze.
 |
 |
 |