Three Variations

Ron Androla

the sun is being torn
from the chest of trees

from my eyes, severed
like a whisper out of silence.

a bird brags its yellow beak
opens of the cherry sky

the way stones are born
in my hands

releasing
searching for the world,


*

now the room is lemon ice
cooling in the wincing afternoon.

my books hang
from the ceiling's eye

like warm tears melting
out of frozen eyes

the glassy sun a round bottle
filled with the despair of indifference

an old man
like a blind cane

poking down the walks


*

sun's out by its blue roots
into the green sky!

warm beer has soaked my brain, seeping
bloating years of thin thoughts

here in this room
music is under water

stuffed into the gills
of passing fish.

beaches are full
of sands &.women

smoothing into me
like round hours of intoxication.

 

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