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Sunday, August 21, 2011



the water runs
from large and deep
to small and shallow
and it makes no sense
if you wonder
where does it all go?
where does it all come from?
while crickets and cicadas
go on and on and on and
ghost spiders drop
from the only shade
in the middle of all this
dead grass
and shadows of gulls
expecting something more filling
than crumbs of thought
so there is tension in the air
and i brought my own along
with your posthumous
“collected poems”
on which i rest my page suffering
sunburn and spider legs
in between the high lake
the low river
writing as fast as i can
before that white concrete slab
stops the flow

1 comment:

  1. It is interesting to note that this poem got two "likes" when it was posted on Facebook.