"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.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
1 comment:
Great poem!
////////////////
Raveling reasons
would pull us back again,
grime our grime with the
sun's insistence upon things.
The tepid try, the ghost
of the crack in our
cry to be let loose
from the world, into language's
arrival at language.
Post a Comment