Wednesday, April 9, 2014

Rain / Dream: 10



Rain / Dream: 10

Rusted-out pistols and old vacuum
cleaner parts piled in a pick-up bed,
neon flash-blink of the Urgent Motel,
overlooked personal situations
that curve back and carve a blood-
gully in your whitewashed niche.

This is you on line at the Safeway
in front of a film noir blonde
making selfies.  This is you buying
a plane ticket to Damascus or Kiev...
anywhere you can write poems
about electrical cord hangings.


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