In the trembling pockets of the year
For exhausted silence.
Apparations
Float blessed freely, around our arms,
Through my bow-legged legs,
Making music with their vibrations.
There is Time
For visions of partially-lit
Street corners in a cobblestone town.
The cops are out and listening.
They wait for a false move
That will never come.
There is Time for an unexpected collision.
Who knows what we're up against.
No comments:
Post a Comment