Anvil in a Lace Bootie

the tight eyes of the braided rope

haunt -

the spiral cord, engorged, continues to dine,

methodically chomping -

the pain of spillage is bloody

but neatly defined -

i remember the tractor fondly

when

i tap my sleeping foot against the gleaming radiator -

monstrous my owl -

harpsichord lost

in the dunes

Filed under:
Loon Poetry by Doc