Thursday, January 22, 2009

Asleep at the same time.


Swam in a lake brown 
with Water 
to a house in Indiana.

To a tree. 
To a lamp-post cinder-tied to the ground thrown against it.


I am standing on the parched porch leaves watching—
Guy taking a leak in the sun burnt stair well.

Clothes hanging dry on the branch line.

What is there more than soft bed, soft sheets. 

Where to it?
Where to it and why, poem— 

Up the page into pure white?

My mind falls open on it. 

No comments:

Post a Comment