The Slow Earth
Someone has pickled the butterflies
Which now line like lead
My black box belly,
A living dearth.
We twist around little sorrys, our
Cement-mixer minds
absorb from Telly
What we're worth.
Dry-ice autopilot turns on, as
Words fly past windows,
Staining like jelly
The slow earth.
Copyright © Dan Keir | Year Posted 2015
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem.
Please
Login
to post a comment