Saturday, January 17, 2009

Tiger Beckett


in the jungles of the tigers's heart

the same jungles are burning

while your mother draws calligrams

with a wooden spoon

the soup of her heart

fogs the eyes of her windows

she hears the songs in the subway

they are inaudible


the tunnels of this imagined city sleep in the ground

a thousand years before their construction

in the dumb myths of the savages

who skin the most beautiful princess for their gods

she rises with agni’s smoke

into cerulean blue

the drums keeping time

the air is full of our cries