Like last men of the high mine field,
scraps and shells of worn nylons bags
fallen on valleys of thinking, where no a small city, blooms
when an aged machine contemplated;
why the dust is gone with wind on highway..
why the mice are rolled instead, with a selfishness cigar’s leather
why the roads that look so long, are vanishing in the mist, like knights in cross point…
why the locked tree, when it was stirred, cut from its womb, accepting being divided on many opinions..
why the rope which’s slung like your question in your face, swunging like a tie of an wooden clock fixed on the wall, the wall of your speculation, that your mother puffed in your rubber head..
we all are born with a rubber head