At the Party
tequila worm faces dabble in Dali.
I depart for deeper woods,
take matches
to a snoozing clown—
watch moonbeams become the vortex of a raw swarm.
I must wait for pesky dawn roulette angels
to spin into black pockets,
try to hold these blurred poses of planet plentiful
as the sound of seventh son's tambourine
drifts from the hysterical sea
where Van Gogh's ear is a conch shell.
Copyright © Darrell Lindsey | Year Posted 2012
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