The foot is disheveled.
The armpit is the moon.
And what lessons have the rain
To letter at night alone without
Legs or thoughts?
What does it mean to be human
When the heart and lungs are a marathon
Of leaves?
You cannot cross out the distance.
Cup sorrow in your hands
But to be abbreviated in this light
Is life.
If death cannot cull these questions
At least the ice cream truck tonight rings
A symphony for a fake piano
In pencil in the night in a sky that cannot be seen.
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I’ve got no idea what you’re on about, Bob but I love the surrealism of the images, their incongruity; something is happening there, but I don’t know what it is 🙂
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Thank you John. I’m very glad you liked it.
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Beautiful. These images have a great poetic logic and create a very moving picture.
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Poetic logic, I agree, but I really don’t know if I could ever put my finger on what that means. Maybe that’s for the best?
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Yeah, I know what you mean. It’s intuitive, yet mysterious. I don’t know about you, but I’m not sure I’d enjoy writing poetry so much if I felt I really understood it.
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I couldn’t agree more.
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What fleeting beauty has now broken off the skin of words.
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What a wonderful thing to say. Thank you!
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I was born to run the highway of words
Karma stole my legs
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That is a wonderful line!
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