It's all new and improved, the
soup cans tower skywards,
each label bearing a message
of some import, terse as a
fortune cookie
remember names,
cross your t's and dot your
i's, speak in lost languages
only the select few will
comprehend--in other words--get your ducks
in a row
catch her hand as you sail over the
stile (unguarded at the
moment) by the gatekeepers
in their thickstarchedshirts, the
thorns mark you,
still, it is worth it, to
press past and,
dew-damped, pull yourselves up
to scratch worlds of words
upon the walls again,
recalcitrant children, finally grown,
tramping along rural lanes,
the symmetry of nature
mirrored in the lines he
sets down, deliberate, across the
canvas, each stroke but
a small part of a larger
whole, wholly his, and,
part and parcel, parceled
out in those bursts of
inspiration that come
tapping down like rain on
skylights, insistent
as his heartbeat
pressed against hers
No comments:
Post a Comment