Apr 19, 2012


Lost light
with nary a design,
deigned to designate
a swathe of the badlands
for running water.  Immersed
upright forms suggest figures moving
far away on the tops of buildings on the impossible
line of the horizon, which is never so close as to be
touched—a pink line, shimmering with heat from which
emerge churches of bone like teeth.  Their ilk demarcating the horizon,
a cadre of corpulent fools; such things as were discussed before you were born,
the art of sucking on a lemon.  Those things that are rotten at the core.  You know,
way back when, the boat of the best fell off

the edge of the world.

1 comment:

Dawn said...

I loved it ... the art of writing it as well :)

Keep writing