Tuesday, September 28, 2010

St. Wenceslaus

The stars got it wrong.

In all these dreams,

I am in planes, on the wide decks

of boats, or sulking in the

passenger seat of a Buick.

I am getting away.

The radio blares, but I can’t

seem to make out any lyrics.

There were red shoes.

There were unsigned cards.

There were so many seeds

that refused to take root.

I wake up and find pain

in all of my joints, as if

my hands were over my head

for hours, exclaiming something

I do not remember.

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