alone enough to find the words
that fell in the cracks as it rained,
things like rust and dust--
rhymes I never would conceive
to end my lines,
jumble into a steady syllabic mess.
though there's a beat to the patter,
even as it slips out of making sense.
a rubble of letters turned upright
into tangled languages,
weaving enough ideas to wear
backwards
like eyes on the nape of your neck.
--
Yeah, I started this, and didn't really finish it. Definitely got lost in that second stanza; I don't like where it went.
No comments:
Post a Comment