POETRY
exits exist
I wish I was the wind
and the sound of an orangutan angry at his drums
I was the spool of correcting whites in the machine
I wander into your prayers outside the temple
but dormant, I dont realize and take off
alas, I am neither the museum nor its cheap lights
but I got brought here by a sailor in a raft of medusa hair
and angry embodies my fear exactly as a sparrow
wrapped in paper, the day is a map to the chest
where a sun, wrapped in timber, we know
by the imprints on the copper foil that surrounds
I am an unconscious blue unicorn
passing my arms over a mushroom forest
oh, freedom, wander through me as days
shutter of color and a beach watches the sound as sand
alas, great caroling
by Tom Blood