synagogue bells jar and outside is the
color of green, mist enshrouds moss
macadamized in young wall;
beating back to lips, a paler hue of scorched red,
a moment twists, hurries back to
the shell of a modest hour,
rearing in its tender arms, tantric ***
of rain and tendril. tenuous wind swiftly
purloins sound
submerging the world in picker-patter,
the moon fronts and the sun
behind — this is my world and within
its breast, the riverrun stride in between
stone packs its smell of mud
clotheslines full with heavy fabric
weighed down to intent and inertia,
dragged down to sleep and dream
as the hourly siren tolls somewhere that
does not have a beacon, a name
even, blaming only the shadow frittering
back to its console, pinning us
down to the calm weather we sing
about in the afternoon — reaping
in the twilight,
a cold-mouthed Hefeweizen!
Nov 15, 2015
Nov 15, 2015 at 2:50 AM UTC
synagogue bells jar and outside is the
color of green, mist enshrouds moss
macadamized in young wall;
beating back to lips, a paler hue of scorched red,
a moment twists, hurries back to
the shell of a modest hour,
rearing in its tender arms, tantric ***
of rain and tendril. tenuous wind swiftly
purloins sound
submerging the world in picker-patter,
the moon fronts and the sun
behind — this is my world and within
its breast, the riverrun stride in between
stone packs its smell of mud
clotheslines full with heavy fabric
weighed down to intent and inertia,
dragged down to sleep and dream
as the hourly siren tolls somewhere that
does not have a beacon, a name
even, blaming only the shadow frittering
back to its console, pinning us
down to the calm weather we sing
about in the afternoon — reaping
in the twilight,
a cold-mouthed Hefeweizen!
Request permission to use this poem