I saw a picture
hither though
with a tincture
in flavorless flow
the white liquid
of white-out
dotting stars
in the night
her face gently
sparkled
clothed in black
in starless bright
the curling iron
sat and burned
a dotted line
in Sir Byron's arms
the scattered words
of limitless poems
opened together
and I saw the words
tethered together
in infinite prose
a million songs
come together
a million longing
caravans, strung together
with hemp, and rope
bind the starving
again I sat on an endless hiway
and she picked me up with my bags
and we road to the stop
red signs everywhere
stolen together
in a million songs
1 comment:
This is a delicious tickle of rhythm.
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