A Sheaf of Pleasant Voices
There are rooftops
made of cloud remnants
gathered by a trader
dabbling in car parts and burlap
At night, I dive onto the breeze
fermenting above the dirt
and dream that I am a crocodile
a tin of shoe polish, an audience of two
In the morning, before the smallest yawn
becomes a noodle, I am offered
a ribbon of yellow smoke
I opt for fuzzy rocks and clawed water
and, of course, the perishable window
I am one of the last computer
chain errors to be illuminated
I tell you there are rooftops
on which the moon stops
being a cold jewel
And one by one the mountains
begin their descent from
the chambers of a lost book
