ALLAN PETERSON

Meanwhile

Afraid is making comebacks in the hills.
                Dark in the corners, dark upstairs
where my window, unrivered from the wind
                is my sane partner though its dead calm
grieves me.

Bees on tinfoil is the river from here
                and silk on sunset. 
The Instamatic starts from the margins
                in creative ways, daylight unoffended at the bite.

Meanwhile

I am surrounded by flush left and ligatures.
                The two-pointed moon shifts reasons.
I argue with my hands as if they were airports
                waving at arrivals, sad at departures.
I know there are no dead in our estimation
                even the cities of headstones
their eyes all open as reassurance.
There are only half sleepers and the paralyzed awake.

I know rock will succeed us. We will not blink
                in the face of no function
but look toward what, or from, we will forget.