Wednesday, 1 June 2016

1 New Poem

Horizon Lines

Weaver’s tomes don’t make it these days,
the linen paper loom gets stretch-swayed
from toss ship breeze, tightened white crisp sail,
that type you cast to oceans just to know what
might happen from it, suggested words to fill column

It comes close; you recognize the shape of chemical
fires for faint hearts, how much of a hash you
make, a dog’s dinner of chewed-up trapper journals
that couldn’t be given back for the very best of friendship’s

A hidden from hit parade thing, fooling eyes
dart a stage hand tableau, scene switching
but you can’t take chances with that sort of street

I never maze-built a spiraled case for why,
as patient-faded the dusty building glass

wandered wound of aged

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