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
...was going to write 'quite Dylanesque', but it's actually (more truly) Verdonesque. Very fine.
ReplyDeleteA beautiful adagio vista +++
ReplyDeleteGlad you both dig it :)
ReplyDeleteI dig too. Beautiful.
ReplyDeletethanks Sarah
ReplyDeleteOh I keep visiting your poem! Like a little resting place.
ReplyDelete