Tuesday, May 24, 2016

Robert Verdon, #153, Wayward Tails


wayward tail-end of the storm
writhing like an invisible scorpion’s
somewhere up there, out there, at five,
soft grumble against a waterpaint-grey sky

wayward tail of the past, wagging
through each horsehair word I wrote at school,
and still, each word a grain, crystalline or
organic, salt and pepper and mustard,

skipping and tripping through history, vinegar creeks against
the paperwhite sky, prehensile tails of the shrinking future
stirring deep beneath the violet sheen of the present,
the wayward world turning over in bed just once more

No comments:

Post a Comment

Note: Only a member of this blog may post a comment.