Tuesday, June 22, 2010

2 poems by Alan Britt

ALIENS

There could be aliens
under my couch.

Well, just because it’s never happened?

When’s the last time
you vacuumed your couch?

See, I could be an alien falling madly in love with you
this very moment,
and you wouldn’t even notice.


CLOUDS

(For Ultra Violet)

Clouds.

Bluewhite clouds,
pipe smoke
trailing the Bride’s dragonfly wings.

The King arrives.

At least we think he’s a King,
though, nowadays,
we keep a tight grip on our senses.

Clouds
part the curtains
of our amnesia,
and the King enters
lifting arthritic windows,
forcing clouds like oxygen
through the gills of our souls.

8 comments: