Thursday, May 12, 2011

It Will Be Warm (Till November)

Footprints dissolve in the mud
feet: fleet, sudden muddy armada
six-seven songs thicken my head
warm prayers like stars, pleated breezes

Lost: can we care about mapped lines--
those echoes happening like strewn veins 
open the bruised year, count what is sent
unpin hope--find it escape, flying like a signal

_

1 comment:

Anonymous said...

Did not know you were writing here again. I look forward to reading your thoughts. Thanks. R.C.