Friday, October 14, 2016

Robert Verdon, #328, constant discovery

there is a tiny oval door

in my house

opening its trumpet high note onto

an amphitheatre city

coiled round sprouting wooden skyscrapers

which reach almost to the

roof of the highest house

where dreaming children live forever

and music floats across the afternoon

like a hand of cool yellow smoke

but like that mythical goldfish in a bowl,

a dementia patient looking for home,

I can rarely find it


  1. ...was going to write 'quite Dylanesque', but it's actually (more truly) Verdonesque. Very fine.

  2. Oh I keep visiting your poem! Like a little resting place.


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