The Sweepers

They rise early, They sleep late,
They watch with pale eyes:
Styrofoam, plastics, bottles,
tossed loosely into the streets,
like chum, like bait, like
careless lies in a church,
(insulting Their own divinity)
They go unnoticed by some,
sweeping, retrieving, lords of
trash, kings of clean, They go noticed
by some, some real assholes,
rash and rude, who see Them sweeping
and toss something –
a little flake of themselves –
to the ground.

Rhythms and Echoes

There is nothing new under the sun,
only new suns to see things by.
We will trace our scars by candlelight,
and rejoice in our survival;
we will trace our scars in rainstorms
and bemoan our breaking fates.
I do not recognize myself in some light,
I do not recognize some light in myself,
We will devour every atom of dust,
snatch them from their Brownian paths,
and chase every maniac dream that
leads to those alien suns.