t u s c a l o o s a
D A V I D F L O Y D
Morning birds sing it’s been real to the night
as the sun chokes the sky
of recent rain, dawn uncocks itself,
and tucks itself back into its dark place.
We go through sundry changes so often
we feel exactly the same, experience
a sort of heat death in our unrehearsed,
dreamy lives. Done with the stale stench of logic
and other nonsense like heritage
not hate, we kill our flying cockroaches
and move our indoor home furnishings
from the front porch back into the living room.
It’s a wonder we can get any real sleep.
Nothing human is foreign.
Some theorist will claim words, in the end,
have no meaning, and, without irony,
he’ll use words to stake his claim. We’re living
and dying at the same time; conceivably,
we shouldn’t be bothered by all this.
One of us needed to say it sooner
or later—when we start our unwinding
skyrocket toward decay. Infinity
can be glimpsed in Tuscaloosa's sundown.
It feels like it almost takes forever.
© crossconnect, inc 1995-2004
published in association with the
university of pennsylvania's
kelly writers house