| underground in flooded Seneca burial grounds it smells like a cigar which if shifting senses would look like th egolden zigzags of light under the river, reflecting off that reservation mud. a smooth feathery flakey mud that sits, flowed over, but when touched clouds up in an untranslucence. when the police shined their flashlights on us tresspassing on the roof, eye to eye with the con ed clock, the queensbridge, citigroup, chrystler, and Met, you ran and hid. if only we could scatter mud and escape. smoked out and drunk, pissing in the grass, taking the subway, migrating burroughs like countries, as if into switzerland via the L. they say ashes to ashes, as the dust cloud rolls over the sudan, rolling out, atomic cloud like, under the water, currents twist, above, the wind, circling past stiring the waters. and sometimes, the flipping of the water in spring time, rising of cold to the top to the watmth, a shifting. and the sands rise, ashes of the dead, in a cloud, millions of years of millions of lives, civil wars, births, weddings, conversations, hopes, all dead, rising up, in this springly shifting. resurrected. |