Monday, 20 July 2015

1 New Post

The Thing About Dreams
Everything lost along the highway at night
reflects, sparking, torrential, eyes of
landlocked Midwestern states turning in sequence
to battered tomes of ages past:
memoirist typefaces, laggy second-pressing
covers in watercolour fashion, kind to
find in gas station spin-racks between pulps
and Harlequins, beneath fading sun heat of
still water, exhaustion pills and greater motion.

How ever-crossed-up are means with ends,
subtle clanking of pens for wordsmiths,
a glancing glint for shots in the dark,
straining adolescent sentiment for passion;
who can blame for that,
with the tales of freeway freedom spinning
around airwaves' brusque light brigade?

If those wonders held truth, the thought
of leaping right over wood and wire laminate
of these knock-off Starbucks tables to
kiss you
wouldn't seem so distant,

you'd be the breeze between lampposts at dawn.

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