Your smile foretold
I'd screw-up this poem.
We had foresight then,
And anticipation
Invoking the future.
We leaned back,
Looking down the well,
Swept away clouds
In tea-cups,
And smoke in cauldrons
To seize the summer.
The suddeness of loss
Is not prophesied;
One does not pre-order
Ointments.
If I'd been spiritual
I would've seen a sign,
Like a bird,
Building a nest.
I don't hear voices.
When I slice through
A tomato, I don't find
An embossed relief
Of a martyr.
I only have this picture.
Apr 28, 2015
Apr 28, 2015 at 7:24 AM UTC
Your smile foretold
I'd screw-up this poem.
We had foresight then,
And anticipation
Invoking the future.
We leaned back,
Looking down the well,
Swept away clouds
In tea-cups,
And smoke in cauldrons
To seize the summer.
The suddeness of loss
Is not prophesied;
One does not pre-order
Ointments.
If I'd been spiritual
I would've seen a sign,
Like a bird,
Building a nest.
I don't hear voices.
When I slice through
A tomato, I don't find
An embossed relief
Of a martyr.
I only have this picture.
