“Through a Glass Car”
The dew rose in a mist like men from graves. The grass chirped with a call through a glass car. Eyes were clocks of time to tick and tock as the beat of thought. To fly in mind is as great as to fly in a warm sky joined with clouds of dreams. I gulped the view with thirst for joy in day’s charm. Through a glass car. A bud that sailed in a rose-bud wind. A bee that buzzed the past to books. A thorn crunched by the pride of spring. An apple with a want to grow. Through a glass car. A box of laughs in a sea of shut mouths. Hear the shouts of ants. Their crawl. Their lift. Their flex. Their strength. Speak not a work of words. Through a glass car. Art is in the mills. In the stream of child-tossed rocks. In the womb of soil. In the cores of nuts that hang in trees. In the squirrels that chat the day to steel dusk. In the gold eyes of fruit flies that break the dawn. Lures through feel and not through touch yank me out of the glass car with hands of iron stone, but do not break it. The air with a shriek and burst of quaks rings the bells of cast bronze, but do not break the glass car. A mess of neat thorns lie on the road, a pave of slick swords, but do not break the glass car. The glass car. Through and through, it will pass by and by. Eggs of the golden goose fall from the jam skies as rains of craze, but fail to fracture the glass car. Sound is tone. Smooth is touch. Not to taste but for the rush. Through a glass car. No wheels. No breaks. Fuel is not burned. Home is not here nor there. Through a glass car. One is every which where.
-FMG
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