Peter I have senses- plastic as
the hours- crows ending in
dynamos- industrial
forms- come on Joe,
come with me- it is unbelievable
this wing makes noise
of voices over head
the tarmac is ready
the obscenity of
light is
dancing and making
the soldiers home sick
for weaving
the buried are not weeping the
powder is bleating and sweating in the
brass ball cartridge waiting
the paper is molding and the
hands are unfolding at
the whistle the gassing- and the
dawn breaking out like a warning.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment