Weathers

“The seventeen of us left under a waning moon,

the march was very tiresome …

The news seems to be diversionary.”

The moon blues the beach.

The sea shines like dark lead,

only moving moving swells

slowly        and recedes.

Walking out here on the edge

I know now the world is flat.

We can’t quite see it go,

but the water cliffs off    out there.

And suddenly you skip    to stop

crunching the shells that pave our way

in these blue lights.

A short wind bites at our fingers

even together

making December in our pockets.

Hushed    the ocean    flutters

along the brittle edge of sand,

like small    blue    birds    with white wings

balance on telephone wires in a freezing wind.

“Today    Nato killed a little bird

with his slingshot We enter

the era of the bird.”