B.long.ing.s

These bags of eyes
I put them here
Heartless summer dust
without homes
Airing out the cotton
Having just collected Chicago
and Dallas
via port of call
All three letter distinction
and filled with glass
Now about my eyes --
There is no glass in there
But having swallowed half of a toothpick
just outside of Dallas
I figure on playing safe
sliding home with bits in my teeth
and hair
and bags full of eyes
which brings up feelings --
feeling of empty space
in direct /versus\ with filled space
and so --
We walk along some craggy riverbed
Long since having seen a drop
With its own eyes
There are drop offs
and drab flats
But not a drip to call Lester
or Barney or John
all the titles that might garnish
and garner
now tarnished
and slightly warmer
Less temperate
it can be said:
What keeps things temperate
is a sense of belonging
What tears them apart from temperance
is belongings
--
7.12.12