The cold moved into skin with
palaces of glass wind and brittle
twang strings of ice forests. He
jangled as he walked three inches
above frozen water.
He strapped sunrays under his feet
and slid at the speed of thought;
armies among crowds rioting
for something real for once, not
the same old hoarse choirs
gaggling in smoke.
Speed of future, runners at public
square, black books on shoulders
turned to page thirteen-million,
before time, where she sings pain
into eyes, emotions into trees.
All evening we sip butterfly wing
powder and pollen from plum trees.
We long to be solid like music in her
voice. We turn to stone, to vapor,
to long days in the desert where
the only tree flies in circles under
©November 12, 2007
As a note, Russell Salamon is an accomplished published poet!
It is a real delight to be able to post one of his poems!