COMMINGLE
And oh so many times the varied hurtings cast their
plights; the arrows and the wounds. I move on, perplexed.
I alone do not understand - apparently - what it is
that
drives other people. This jacket I wear bears my shrug.
As if I was in pantomime, a mime, a jagged sock puppet
drained and wilting. Nothing I get, though I've gotten it.
-
Now the storm drain pours its awful matter outward -
perhaps a wrong direction but running nonetheless.
-
Others may ask the commingling notes of fence and
barrier and distance; that awful medley of melody
sounding - the clash and cymbal of every noise.
In my brain, amplified by a brutish snort, I paw
and rut like a bull in pursuit of a fine-class
mate.
No comments:
Post a Comment