Finite existence makes me
More expensive. Poetry
Is living space for the unknown.
We weave a hopeful tapestry,
Wrote the weaving novelist
For her heroine to think.
He was the tallest man ever
And a burrowing owl in flight.
Fitly feed my driftwood fire.
I'm the last I left behind.
You think this is a bricolage?
I was the tallest man ever,
So tall I had to die young.
A boy, I walked with a cane.
I towered over telephone
Booths in Las Vegas museums.
No comments:
Post a Comment
Note: Only a member of this blog may post a comment.