Nov 23, 2008



Searchlight-spot huge white
moon in the blue morning,
September balm withered-- trees
sanguine, give up
in the thick haze. Through
factory windows beside the train see
inverted glowing buttercup
lamps light who knows what.
Woman in the seat opposite
metronomes, syllables spurt
from her lips like the rail shrieks
as light-flowers are prized
open by the dawning day,

September, never any rest
for the dead, 6AM the moon
steals away, guilty. Summer
drops down to the curb
with the illegals waiting
for some work.

From my chapbook Turning, soon to be available as part of the Dusie 2008 Chapbook exchange project.

No comments: