cyclists shed the spokes
children enter trees
behind the whisper of
one-legged parachutists
and smell of unuttered prayers
sounds drown in trumpets and burrows
blind waiters die in the
dreams of a shy nanny goat
my inner sophocles
is sawing a piano with a havana
in the land where they grow saints
and dawdling geese
the less the bird the longer
its song the more i drink
tequila from broken telephones
afraid of
empty bottles and cracks in
the urinals and long
cigarette butts and wet books
and forgotten psalms and clockhands
eaten by flies and palms of
sleeping friends
Ivan Peledov is a poet living in Colorado. He keeps a weblog at http://birdsorfish.blogspot.com.
