like a rocket that doesn't rise too high
then falls or a fountain jetting before
the palace blown into spray the initial
rush of love spreading like butter onto
the toast of time good with marmalade
rain drops cohering into vegetables or
floods ideas needing to be written out
music decaying as it flowers in place
light fading as the earth turns away to
hover silently as if in sleep returning
never exactly the same familiar faces
older than yesterday or gone forever
dissolved into ordinary daily writing
defines a surprisingly cool trajectory
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment