On the Peace Pipe
a poem for Osama Esid
by Andre Deus
Whose is she, someone stands on the corner, of me
influencing the planets with her sign
did she take leave for the holiday?
painting to me... take care sweet heart
deliver jeru salem here, inside me hurt
and every vain holy name plenty -
plant the sign incant and hope in
the ground to rise again.
poem quotes are soon delivered on trains
owned over by the pullmans, that only
We are or might be watching in the World;
her tragedy is over, as a divine comedy.
some noons in time peirce these pictures
wheels white and soundless
stills to show in goldleaf millixour.
I overthink on me, now, and know little else-
for i am friendless,
without her pipe, now, simply existing;
as heaven, I am not to care for,
regard me the same, my libel on his word,
just asked in my bible.
i'm someone lesser, now, up in the firmament
wandering begger and blindly pulling off
all that I've gathered inside the foxskin cloth.
so long to the frosty night she traveled on the pipe
so far to or from the united states, MA, Baltimore.
carry a tune, Gabriela's caligraphy, inside darned socks
we're all aboard the Northern, with imagined gifts.
her's were quilting as she hushed along the tracks
these last few years dividing our justice from seeds, eternaly.
her beautiful lids met my nostrils as pulsing streams
thar pillows that gather up on the down thrusts.
these we are as theives to old pipers music,
notes inside the body of accordion tunes.
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