And the soberiety of dying flies. We are green and aware of all our fingers. We float, under the torrent of the shower, hoping never to run out of anatomy. Sickening.
The roof line of the old house beckons, the tar paper beneath us vaguely covers. The bottom forever falls out and we are waiting for the plummet. The season of vertigo and construction
Cranes. Consider a man in a box at the thin point where vertical becomes horizontal. Above the horizon. The belief in metal, it's strength running the frail walls of pipe. Should he even think about it, that far up?
What does he see?
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2 comments:
love this poem and the most recent rhino poem. you are a good friend.
awwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwww..........
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