Oh, the tiles are happy, all right—sometimes,
abandoning shellacked habits, ceramic
citizens clink together, caulking their crimes
in waterproofed art, painting panoramic
faces all one color. I'm patterns and grids,
a plain of pitted flat-Earth wonderment
that sweeps and mops so nicely, twisting lids
off snack jars for the trip. We supplement
our caves with yellow bricks, inventing paths
through
Legoland and Wonderland and Oz
while strumming plastic rock guitars. It's bath-
time all the time, and water's fine because
the shaggy floor was smoothed. So take my hands.
We'll bare our feet and write our own commandments.
No comments:
Post a Comment