thinking about armchair sex
at the dawn window and the end of an era
as the bottle fell faintly
from a failing hand
and the upholstery of memory
tore for a spiritual riot,
a mist of light purging
mannered speech from hammered air.
I'm remembering a moss covered ditch
with blueberries on each side
and the buzzing night gone white
through afternoon with its presence
all arrayed too soon.
No comments:
Post a Comment