My Head is a Jungle

My head is a jungle,

snarled with dreams,

drenched in the musk

of an endless summer.

This is where I hide away

to steal my secret slumbers,

to lick my fault lines

in the shade of a tree

I should never have touched

with friends I should

never have met.

 

My heart is a black box,

crammed in some corner

of the plane that hurtles

even now toward the

tangled green below,

lonely in the sky for the

very last time – a bride

with a train of smoke.

The black box measures

the passengers’ prayers,

sound and image both.

Survival appears unlikely,

but if the impact goes well

they will crawl as one tribe

from the wreck to find

themselves strangely at home

in this wilderness of words

and pools and glittering,

whispering snakes – this

sunburnt bower of bliss,

this strangest of utopias.

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