Reworked
The slick-wet-black of the pavement. Raindrops pool along the sides of curbs. When I close my eyes against the thin light I see expelled leaves, browned and stuck to the undersides of shoes, leaves smashed between treads. Simply mashed underfoot.
Do you have a language I need to learn?
The delicate nature of a just plucked goose feather, only it was plucked from a down comforter by the cats.
How a pinhole can cause an all day leak.
The balance of your voice is tipping sideways. The wine glass can swish its contents with a sharp tap to the base. Breathe deeply, inhale. Can you hear the tapping of the blind mans cane—it’s hitting the wall—he is in a hallway.
The fleeting idea of continuity is your through strand.
A dropped book in the rain, ruins the story. Can you carry on without the words? Rivulets of ink along a bumpy medium. A Korean artist paints into, not against, the grain of old Korean paper. Makes art on pre-existing surfaces. A crease in the paper defines a wrinkled forehead, can make known character flaws with paint brushed ease.
A possibly known shoulder shrug or eye wink, yes.
A trapped fly lives between the screen and glass of my kitchen window. It flies into the pane again and again. Each time a bit more dazed than the last.
Finally, rests.
Do you have a language I need to learn?
The delicate nature of a just plucked goose feather, only it was plucked from a down comforter by the cats.
How a pinhole can cause an all day leak.
The balance of your voice is tipping sideways. The wine glass can swish its contents with a sharp tap to the base. Breathe deeply, inhale. Can you hear the tapping of the blind mans cane—it’s hitting the wall—he is in a hallway.
The fleeting idea of continuity is your through strand.
A dropped book in the rain, ruins the story. Can you carry on without the words? Rivulets of ink along a bumpy medium. A Korean artist paints into, not against, the grain of old Korean paper. Makes art on pre-existing surfaces. A crease in the paper defines a wrinkled forehead, can make known character flaws with paint brushed ease.
A possibly known shoulder shrug or eye wink, yes.
A trapped fly lives between the screen and glass of my kitchen window. It flies into the pane again and again. Each time a bit more dazed than the last.
Finally, rests.
posted by Kristine at 10:27 AM
3 Comments:
A possibly known shoulder shrug or eye wink, yes
not so sure about that one
I like this one alot. It sorta reads like a narrative, well in my mind anyway...
That's very funny that you say that Mike. I'm pretty anti-narrative in a traditional sense and this poem is talking about anti-narrative sentiments. I think it's always interesting how people feel the need to create those strands and strive for plot or story or something to carry them through. That's good to know.
Post a Comment
<< Home