THREE THOUGHTS
She stands upon an outthrust rock
reaching out into the wind
her dress billows like ruffled feathers
When morning light smears black-blue with crimson
fishes and flying things tend to her grave.
Strength of the icon, an image glorified and worshipped
Worshipped like some elder unholy god
Who lusts for blood of the newborn
Today nothing happened, as usual.
I want to dial a random phone number
crawl through the receiver
through the cable in the wall
through the switchboard
and lose myself in
someone’s call waiting
©1990
Psychoterrierpy 