Pebbles

July 11, 2015 - Poetry

Pebbles get stuck
in the thick layers
of our brains, and chant
the songs that hunters
hum. They stroll
listlessly through the muck
we find in the cant
of hurried bird calls.

Separate image
from image
from form or sense;
the new mirage
flows out like marbles
from the broken bells
of children singing
with the birds.

Each bird
and child
hunter
or brave
soul-less
picture
becomes
another
rolling
pebble.

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