The salt flats of Balustrino stand empty today
absent picturesque warm waves of crystals washing in from Pin Yong Bay,
the children's mosque is in ruins
and the children in their blue ribbons no longer come out to play,
misfits make their home in the rubble of the Oliphant Theater
huddled in circles around fires in the muffled tunnels
of the old organ's two hundred meter long loudspeaker,
the drug dens of the 8th century Leotard czars no longer wreak of the smell
of cocaine cooking in mason jars
nor of the sweet heated engine oil of their Primo Lixus high end cars,
the peasant's bridge has fallen and either sits at the bottom of the river Avren
or has been washed over Great Avren Falls where it is all expected
to have collected among the sprawl of boulders
at the base of the Falls
whose tall sheer slanted granite facade
the old order of Hispanic monks once used as a wailing wall,
Chyoro Peak is all that remains
shrouded in the cumulus clouds of mystique like
a father
who hides his face from children who seek,
snowdrifts on his cheeks become tears that turn into swiftly flowing creeks
smoothing stones and uprooting trees
becoming rivers at the old mountain's knees
eventually and endlessly emptying into the starlit sea,
tiny Avrill Ocean, the smallest of eight brothers but a wonder nonetheless,
caresses the warm sand at Bahow Beach blessed to be left behind
in a world rushing towards impossible duress,
but without regrets my toes tempt the clear water
and my clothes have been left where they cannot be bothered
and with a half shrimp at the end of a bobber
and with more than a thousand miles to anything modern
I am absolutely forgotten
like a single grain of pollen,
and right now
under the shade of this coconut bough
I would rather have nothing to which I had more in common.
TA
absent picturesque warm waves of crystals washing in from Pin Yong Bay,
the children's mosque is in ruins
and the children in their blue ribbons no longer come out to play,
misfits make their home in the rubble of the Oliphant Theater
huddled in circles around fires in the muffled tunnels
of the old organ's two hundred meter long loudspeaker,
the drug dens of the 8th century Leotard czars no longer wreak of the smell
of cocaine cooking in mason jars
nor of the sweet heated engine oil of their Primo Lixus high end cars,
the peasant's bridge has fallen and either sits at the bottom of the river Avren
or has been washed over Great Avren Falls where it is all expected
to have collected among the sprawl of boulders
at the base of the Falls
whose tall sheer slanted granite facade
the old order of Hispanic monks once used as a wailing wall,
Chyoro Peak is all that remains
shrouded in the cumulus clouds of mystique like
a father
who hides his face from children who seek,
snowdrifts on his cheeks become tears that turn into swiftly flowing creeks
smoothing stones and uprooting trees
becoming rivers at the old mountain's knees
eventually and endlessly emptying into the starlit sea,
tiny Avrill Ocean, the smallest of eight brothers but a wonder nonetheless,
caresses the warm sand at Bahow Beach blessed to be left behind
in a world rushing towards impossible duress,
but without regrets my toes tempt the clear water
and my clothes have been left where they cannot be bothered
and with a half shrimp at the end of a bobber
and with more than a thousand miles to anything modern
I am absolutely forgotten
like a single grain of pollen,
and right now
under the shade of this coconut bough
I would rather have nothing to which I had more in common.
TA
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