Three Variations
Ron Androla
the sun is being torn
from the chest of trees
from my eyes, severed
like a whisper out of silence.
a bird brags its yellow beak
opens of the cherry sky
the way stones are born
in my hands
releasing
searching for the world,
*
now the room is lemon ice
cooling in the wincing afternoon.
my books hang
from the ceiling’s eye
like warm tears melting
out of frozen eyes
the glassy sun a round bottle
filled with the despair of indifference
an old man
like a blind cane
poking down the walks
*
sun’s out by its blue roots
into the green sky!
warm beer has soaked my brain, seeping
bloating years of thin thoughts
here in this room
music is under water
stuffed into the gills
of passing fish.
beaches are full
of sands &.women
smoothing into me
like round hours of intoxication.