Long Weekend

a re-run of the sun's final episode

airs every evening at dusk

 

moonlight's pale makeup

makes everything look 

more alive than it is

 

in the insecure buildings

security guards struggle to stay awake

 

eyes plow through night's soft soil

hardworking dust particles hum

along with songs on the radio

  

Transtromer City

 

In Transtromer City

a silent joy rings

your inner doorbell and runs

 

the wounded newspaper boy

limps homeward

in autumn's anaesthesia

 

we who live

are bank-chained pens

scribbling signatures

on the pavement's blank check

 

 

A Strange Time

 

When my birds went away

I kept stones in cages

and gave them names

I painted them

beautiful colors

and taught them

to sleep at night 

it was a strange time

but no one complained

 

when my birds

came back

my stones refused

to be stones again 

I painted the birds grey

removed their wings

and threw them at the windows

of abandoned buildings

I kicked them along

the road just for fun

 

Old Year's Day

 

There was no New Year

this time around because

parliament shut down

so we had to begin

the old year again.

The same wars started

over and the same dead

people died twice.

We lost our breath

inflating burst balloons.

We glued all the broken

eggshells back together

into one big egg.

Old empty shoes

in the street

started kicking us

for no reason.

A homeless wind

pushed a small

gray cloud like

a wobbly shopping cart

through the darkening sky.

 

Hotel Dieu Hospital Café

 

We couldn't tell if it was

a hospital or a coffee shop.

All the linen tablecloths

 

were stained with blood,

coffee and dried-up tears.

The waitress was dressed

 

like a nurse. She brought us

two cappuccinos and said

 

 

we didn't have long to live.

 

Tiny Kingdom 

 

The wind chimes resemble a gentle alarm

warning everyone that nothing is wrong. 

Even though ants creep through the grass

like little coffins carrying themselves, 

 

and hospitals sneak up behind the sick.

Even though the rickety days are kept

together only with sunlight's sticky tape,

everything is fine: the birds in the trees

 

sound like cheerful ambulances,

every moment is a tiny kingdom,

and our brief shadows appear permanent

as tattoos on the sidewalk's skin.