by L. Ward Abel
O the crescent flows muddy red
A bend of arterial dimensions
Full to rim and over-
Filled with sins of fathers
Blowing hard without charts now
Improvised in the tradition
Of nontradition. Stiff
In a median overgrown, afloat
With other stiffs, rotting
Without turning to dust - yeah
The tide is dust anyway
Risen to the sky, wet and dry
You can blame no one
You can blame me
hellicane category: local color
1 comment:
One word (FREAK)
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