Tuesday, 1 April 2008

Evening poem

Cars parked testudo formation.
No people on the concrete bank.
The river's liquid conveyer belt rolls
flotsam along exactly as fast as the wind.

Roverbank poplars like rolled-up umbrellas;
like cigars if the setting sun is trying to light one.
If the grain does, or will, or cannot die.
If it refuse to. If evening

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