The mist in the collard greens
is moving like an old woman
in dusty lingerie making sparks
with a *** where it lays tired
and the moon looks right odd
like an albino hawk in a dead
tree - branches of solemnity
and worn out blue guitar strings -
while that old locomotive
of darkness blows its steam
through my back porch screen.
Jun 18, 2017
Jun 18, 2017 at 8:44 PM UTC
The mist in the collard greens
is moving like an old woman
in dusty lingerie making sparks
with a *** where it lays tired
and the moon looks right odd
like an albino hawk in a dead
tree - branches of solemnity
and worn out blue guitar strings -
while that old locomotive
of darkness blows its steam
through my back porch screen.
