|
| |
Spectacle of the Untitled
dreaming color onto gray
dreaming with open eyes
sometimes I think about nowhere, how
I'll never see that same
woman walk that particular way
down that street donning those same
shoes with that easy smile
again slowly etching lines
collect in turn their tears, as sodden
woodwork of a loose-tied paddle boat
catches rain grows weak but
what a spectacle she is in the fog!
light shifting by the hour, pooling
round ever-drifting terrain tell us
new tales that seem familiar
(all is revisionary collage-work)
laughter carries the growing
light-weight of nothing as hours
fold into years scramble your eggs
savor the spectacle of the untitled
unfolding (to out itself) by every
method the disarrangement of your things
(I'm thinking of socks painting floors
but just the right dosage, how
the sound of rain is glorious, soft moans
that slip from your mouth when...)
Copyright ©
Erin Beckett
|
|