He who sees without eyes,
he who’s earth and yet flies,
he who lives and yet dies,
who is he?
He who speaks without thought,
he whose theft is uncaught,
he who’s desperately sought,
who is he?
When the dreamtime comes to pass
we will be but one at last
i sit and stare out the window
stare out the window at the brown dead grass
the dirty snow melting into muddy slush
the mud that is criss-crossed and destroyed with ruts and tire tracks
my face is a cage
and the doves inside are suffocating
in a pile of their own shit
my arms are broken wings
and their featherless forms are useless
in the mud,
in the dirt,
in the silt,
in the pores of the earth,
with the worms,
the moles,
the bugs,
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