I could say this is a Surrealist poem, but I could well be wrong. For dverse.
I could say the sun dripped like a sea anemone among the paper
cups of the butcher’s floor amid the sweepings of carnations
and the sighs of woodlice. I could say the wind blows through
the night dunes, rolling its r’s in true Roman fashion, dropping
packages of white powder on the beach, while I listen to the click
clack of the beadmen as they trip the light fandango on the prom.
And I could say this sun is setting, balanced for a moment upon
the treetops, gathering up the gold and turquoise for other climes.
I could say the blue is fading, a thinning veil between us and the
stars, and soon we will see the universe if only we raise our heads,
if only the street lights would dim,
if only we were not the way we are.
Some things I understand,