History

The pale crescent shadow inside the dark iris 

of the gorilla behind bars

 - what let's me know that he is real -

isn't something I'd trade easily

for that bright sky honesty I can't forget 

shining like a rowboat wading in the sunlight

of your ocean blue eyes.

I built a tiny sand castle inside your left tear duct,

and a little girl with her red plastic bucket

crafts her dreams next to the the shoreline 
so safe inside of there.

While the quiet one with too much to say

sits and waits the time to pass;

Life flickering before him holograph

like memories on super-8 projector screen,

the story of the youth he never had.

A trajectory of iridescent arrows marks a circular path

of breadcrumbs from the zookeeper.
Eleven dusty pigeons rise beyond the surface
like incense smoke and flying ashes,

yet his chain of rusty keys can never be set free.

Convinced he has reenacted the great and mighty jungle

all for me,

these fake plastic trees,

the dirty glass of severed self-awareness,

the smudge of fingerprints 

which keeps him clearly from remembering

the wilderness where we belong.

Wildflower coconuts constructed just prettily enough

to distract the conscience of the ones who won't care for

instinct

and the reason

why gorillas don't speak.

Song