There is something in the furnace that spoils the air;
Turns the fruit bowl on its side, its contents;
An offering to the tide has been made; bare feet
And the white horses of the ocean azure roam; wade
In the sands of lost civilizations as if searching for shells;
And here, he hands one to a little boy 'putting it to his ear;
If you listen closely you can hear Atlantis, singing like a choir

Of birds nesting in one's attic. You can hear them, but
Only when the hum of the refrigerator is at it's lowest
And the mechanical parts of the mind; the body machine
Pumping white blood cells and other particles around
In eternal loops; suffers the wheels of life in depths of sleep
As our ears, in which we hear, turning; thoughts like hands
On the crank shaft force them on; churning with forgotten valor

And outdoors a cat stalks a fly. The winged one knows not why
As it will not be used for food nor for clothing or shelter,
It is merely a practice, as old as the hills and the design
Of that wing, on which notions lift to the heavens as Hermes
And his staff; wrapped in hissing scheme it is all just a game;
Between the tumble drier and the washing machine
I cannot see further than my own two feet, hanging here from this chair.

Want to comment on this Poetry? Sign up to Edit Red and you will be able to comment on Poetry and get access to: Upload your own stories and poems, get readers and their feedback, promote your work...