.
.
.
.
.
.
Time, time,
Buckets of the stuff
Yards, yards
Of tick-tocking yarn
Turn me
Or simply my yearn
Into more of a predator
Unable to discern
With it's own unique
And wider sense
Of zero
Electric fences around all of that
Contain little really
Leaden leads and cables
From the clouds or sky
Imprisoning lightning
Earthward, straight
See it's fury, it's rage
It's paranoid gait...
Time will gain us meaning
Like a half-empty phial
With each my twinge
Of unsurity
Like being knee-high
In small fallen birds
Poor,
Like this soundless field.
Ah, I always seem
To browse and ask
The Poetry of applaud
All out-of reach
Like clear
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
(c) Dot Allison 2006. All rights reserved.
|