Friday, June 5, 2015

The Narcissist's Salon

No evidence of homes remains.
The monsters rise from depths of gore
And other, similar nonsense.

Bend, not toward the specific,
Mimesis, pretend, but toward
The dreamed, the dreamer, the dreamy

Internal monologues that sigh
Into fogs of crowded twilights
When the mountains glow through moments

Before the vacationers' lights
Winding through the cut-down canyon
To and from tents, inns, RV sites.

I am not the hawk in your mind.
You were never a hawk to my mind.

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