The Facts Are Not Correct

I gotta luck bone
jumping inside me

when I stand under a sunrise
and smell the slow world

and a slow ache
spreads in my belly

like a wind.



And you
are drunk with it too

making love while the clock ticks
yawning slowly to rise

into the day in your mind
dressing yourself in duties as I do

when we explain ourselves to ourselves
with a prayer

that invents the world.



But what world waits
like a far-off god

magnetizing the tides
of traffic slurring by

crowds of fellow travellers
who never exactly arrive

where we dream we are destined?



And something shivers in us
and our luck bone jumps

and we blink and land
the flash of our gaze

on a blinding circuitry
and see

the facts are not correct.



.