Joe
  • Joe

  • There were eggs glued in mucous
    to the underside of gold leaves.
    You read us and we grew to a bursting
    in a land of plenty. Our yolks yoked to you.
    Our sweat crusted lips. Our thirst
    to please you. A hunger to please you.
    A knife for America to be us
    in a golden beehive.

    Behave the surgeon's hand -
    the light of the blade to cut us, the salted angels,
    from a burning tree.
    Believe escape is the wind and a twig dipped in your eye.

  • 6" x 4"
  • Oil pastel and color pencil on paper
  • 2007