The Watchers
The watchers long for jazz and velocity,
the pink distances dreamed within fluid gestures.
A steady bird touches them between the legs, and they
are caught quite happily between engines and tradition.
Isn't it amazing how symbols jump around?
Darkness crawls, and giants line every beam,
the naked voice causing many a theoretical stomach to lurch.
To them, it's no coincidence that hardboiled eggs
carry the accident of spirit.
by Michael Puttonen