A blanket
A covered stretch of ground to cross in due time
A blank face
A blank slate
An empty head tonight moves across this white space
I've crunched through snow and Summer
both.
Fused years, found friends and let dead ones go.
This axe to grind has grown dull, I know--
and cumbersome
on ground yet to cover.
As days splice fibers into 12 month rope,
Hang this warm hat on one thing I know:
that I've still got
ground left to cover.
Slow breathing
breath steaming off into dioxide cold night
It drifts towards
the moonlight,
ghost of a laugh escapes, leaks into the night sky
A half hour
A half-smile stretching through my creasing face now
I laughed when
you sang me
Chantilly Lace as we walked across that cold town
I've weathered snow and rainstorms
both.
Fused years, found friends and let dead ones go.
This frown of mine has grown dumb and old
and cumbersome
on ground yet to cover.
As days splice fibers into 12 month rope,
hang memories on one thing I know:
that I've still got
ground left to cover.
The rivers,
like parks and roads,
stitch places to times to sew us homes.
These year-long cords stretch between our doors
across all this ground yet to cover.
Their names are
a cascading brine
"Red," "Big Goose, "Clark Fork," "Assiniboine."
The years flow homeward, my pride erodes--
silt layer on ground left to cover.
Nov 26, 2015
Nov 26, 2015 at 8:25 PM UTC
A blanket
A covered stretch of ground to cross in due time
A blank face
A blank slate
An empty head tonight moves across this white space
I've crunched through snow and Summer
both.
Fused years, found friends and let dead ones go.
This axe to grind has grown dull, I know--
and cumbersome
on ground yet to cover.
As days splice fibers into 12 month rope,
Hang this warm hat on one thing I know:
that I've still got
ground left to cover.
Slow breathing
breath steaming off into dioxide cold night
It drifts towards
the moonlight,
ghost of a laugh escapes, leaks into the night sky
A half hour
A half-smile stretching through my creasing face now
I laughed when
you sang me
Chantilly Lace as we walked across that cold town
I've weathered snow and rainstorms
both.
Fused years, found friends and let dead ones go.
This frown of mine has grown dumb and old
and cumbersome
on ground yet to cover.
As days splice fibers into 12 month rope,
hang memories on one thing I know:
that I've still got
ground left to cover.
The rivers,
like parks and roads,
stitch places to times to sew us homes.
These year-long cords stretch between our doors
across all this ground yet to cover.
Their names are
a cascading brine
"Red," "Big Goose, "Clark Fork," "Assiniboine."
The years flow homeward, my pride erodes--
silt layer on ground left to cover.
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