Actually, I don't write poems. They grab me by the throat and demand to be set down.
Last night was one such occasion:
Grade Crossing, Prairie, Night
Black box silhouettes hurtle across my path, invisible, from horizon to horizon
A million tons of treasure, trinkets, tabletops, marbles, alarm bells
Made in China (and its suburbs) for purchase in our own
A single light the only warning.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment