Random Acts of Poetry
Sunday Morning
The witch tree's limber fingers
sheltered the fluttering birds
as the sky howled;
I sat beneath a table of stone.
The devouring maw
of wilderness desired me:
I saw a cloud disguised
as a lion's head,
crawling vines encircled
my wrists and ankles,
and the sun seared
till I drowned in moonlight.
I woke up nerve numb,
crushed by sleep.
All morning
my mind was an empty plate.
_
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