Beour

We are the new Babylon, aren't we?
But never near the sun
Not a finger touches trees
The only common tongue we shared
Was the stale sound of air
When we breathed in the room
And I knew that it was true
The day mother's sigh made the quiet, pretty noise of grass that grew
In the sun

I couldn't hear it any more
I had to feel it
Mother called me
To let it stain the soles of my feet
And my elbows and my knees
And make my throat itch

So I abandoned that world
Clostrophobic, naked of poets
For lemon trees

I lie prostrate in their leaves
Blanketed from rain
I hardly speak
But when I do, I sing
With sour breath
"La la la la la"