On muddy fields
turned up same
and black
and ready,
new songs sang themselves
into waiting,
among waiting,
where keys dangled
in seen-comet still.
The singing yet
pulls itself
through
inlet crookedness -
earth crookedness -
to fractal shorelines
straightened,
fractured in their straightening,
poured out,
pressed down,
Their remainders
spilling over the unlit west.
Oh, I don't know. We'll see.
*
About Me
- kev99sl
- Middle-aged, pipe-smoking idiot who used to think "adventure" meant smoking Cuban cigars and catching out on freight trains from his boyhood home of Riverdale, Illinois. (Now understands that true challenge lies in trying to explain to two [now three; can it really be three?] hell-raising little boys how Darth Vader is both a good-guy and a bad-guy in the context of Christ's grace.)
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