Monday, February 15, 2016

Soot Put Foot

My head of books, my chest of blood
Divide among my priors, friends.
I could have been the authoress
Of everything and anything
Or I could have authored nothing.
It all goes in all directions.
Going's the only direction
Ever was, begging beginning.

My expiring movements are, were
Like new life's hallucination
Of New Life Island, spit of sand
In the Delaware, hardly wild,
Counseled by evangelicals
In the seventies as a child:
Recite the most Bible verses,
There's hope. But the trill has sounded.

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