Rattle
On light industrial units, sheet-metal roofs
ting under the rising flames of sunlight,
alloy is stretched into ping-pong rhythms.
He arises, rolls off the side of comfort
For a moment tramples on himself
as if he had too much baggy skin.
Morning on the edge of a medium-sized city.
This summer
I will inflate or die, he thinks,
this late chiming morn,
I will behead habitual pretensions,
cast my anchored mind upon uncharted waters.
Minor keys ding as plated roofs tick and clack.
Those sounds’, he thinks, I can use somewhere -
After all, I am a poet
and do I not prattle and rattle when stirred?
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