I am a man
defeated by art,
waiting for a woman to pull me up
and knowing the lush
velvet of my Niagara river
surly as her faithful hand
is pulling me under,
what else is there to do but compare
stones and apples,
hearts and hawks and handsaws
finish the roads out of here
with pea gravel and
hope for distant dirt roads
and pencils, and charcoals
to fill the afternoons
to look to the hand,
my hand to unburden the whole
earth of my consciousness, fueled
and twitching on caffeine and blunt rage
know each of these dark streets holds
its silver coin, its mysterious
relic that i should know, should
find and bring back to the glitter show, but
now i hold only blank post cards
to send out notes of regret, and
explanations for my abandonment.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment