Random Acts of Poetry
Hiss
There is no place for draining.
A solid sky, water licking
dark under sidewalks,
translucent silks of rain,
like sheer drapes convulsing,
but every window shut.
The distant smokestacks
dissolve like an ancestor's
faded reminiscence. Shapes
drift away, vacating dreams.
But from the stony bottom
a face rises, a garnish of seaweed
like a headdress,
more slime from the sluice gate.
What's that the rain hisses?
Ssssh. Slippery season.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
Posts
No comments:
Post a Comment
What's on your mind?