Sunday, January 13, 2008

Doubting Tuesday

The imagination of tumbleweeds
compels her with the certainness of
unsteady fingers.
While in the emptiest of
railway coaches she nears the
deafening slumber.
No third rage-thirsty poet knows
the singleness in spring
spent idly on the plumless oak,
she thinks. To be forsook,
to swear, to run her feet across
the pebble-dry brook.
To teethe.
Gnaw, chop. Never feasting.

No comments: