Poetry 205

I will be posting some of the work from my poetry class up here, so, beware, I guess.

Poem based on the first line from John Ashbery's "At North Farm".

"Someone, somewhere, is traveling furiously toward you,"

Cupping a pocketful of small invertebrates,
In their long, finely-boned fingers
That pull at a visor
And scratch the chest, secretly.

They are not tired in the least,
Traveling at such speeds.

The random lefts, and rights,
The things so quickly breaking apart,

Propelling the cuticles, the clavicle,
the millions of miles of memories
Forward,
To the unraveling,
And the arrival.