Forest Metamorphosis
Slowly, flowers return
To the meadow where they laid
The cut trees.
Mushrooms grow from the heartwood
And hollow you
Beautifully.
Bower
From you, a weeping white light
A beautiful motion
In the drowning terrain
Green and damp, cut through
With columns crosshatching the sun
It’s a place we don’t belong,
But what peculiarity of flesh
leads me back to you
Life devours the dark,
Godlike in its conception,
And finally I find
What grows in your shadow
The Living
the lucidarity
ungrounded wires
i find myself paranoid of light
at the junctions
of the day
yellow-eyed, half-blindered
the judgement of highway angels
finds us lost
and i agree
the moving forms
that make the world before my eyes
the products of the interface
can’t explain
what sparks inside my spine
a projection of a projection
i find you somewhere else completely
characterized by
a persistent lack of faith in me
The Streets
Ghosts dance in the city rain,
Half-joyous between catalogs of grey.
For only a moment
Does the world stop for them.
For all the steel crossbars
And the weight of his right hand,
Streetlights strike the pavement
In paths of cold fire.
Firebreak
Red law,
Firebreak
Vulture rise on the dead-heat air.
Crickets drone in the berry thickets,
Drinking from the river.
Burn redemption,
Shallow water
A single image of your wings.
Sunlight beams through feathers
In bars.
David Lindstrom 