Sunday, August 24, 2008

Just another silly extemporaneous poem I wrote up.

Midnight is when the sprinklers turn on.
As he curls up into blankets
On the same patch of rough carpet,
He is reminded of plurals
That so easily became singulars,
Grass that floods and drowns
In artificial water that
They cannot survive without.
But they drink it in all the same
Hoping
Praying that tonight is the night,
The night they will see the moon
Through unclouded, glazed eyes,
That he will see
Through blind windows and half-open eyes
Because
Midnight is when the sprinklers turn on.

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