Fifty Frames a Second
Farewell to the order, cried in depth,
A surface skimmed flat stone,
For sure the past drinks slower breath,
Cold-cocked and slow deflating;
When the tyres kiss the steely rims
And wrecks replete with rusted hubs
Drop over distant hills.
Only backfires and laughs remote,
Crackled, reticent, teary mist
Calls some faraway vagabond chord
Resonance flecked with Autumn frost;
For futures crook a tapered claw
Towards the sun or flyblown lamp
With essays in cement.
Farewell to the friends, going to ground
In some blue remembered bar room
Or vaulted in a rift in time;
Fifty frames a second played
Circuitous peepshows in the mind,
As silver nitrate lightening flashed
Glimpsed meanings of a life...
Copyright © Tony Bush | Year Posted 2005
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