i was a picnic,
lost at a
sea-cliff
threatening to storm
out into the whirlwind;
a dry crumb in the wicker laugh
snapped
into an iron voice:
storm on, storm on!
or flop to
the bottom
in a howl distinct as the fire
gone out in
an eye:
brief reflection
of those who arrived...
half had
vanished &
half were half-gone
where data
trembled & disappeared
sudden as
paint; har-harring
you slipped
into sea brine,
.
. . still a bit tacky
and
threatened by ghost gulls—
not a little bit icky
& drenched in choked
glances
with less
silence &
more oomph
than reasoning,
& with price
quotations
rather than urghhh .........
i torqued & spluttered
as the storm
worried on
& with a seasonal sigh,
floating
while drowning,
the near moon
was carried off in small bits
by army ants
No comments:
Post a Comment