Lean miles gone by
in the backseats of cars
under grey, leafless skies
little else but tree limbs,smoke stacks.
Signs of first names
half read over the window pane
rushing past as blurred groans,
an alphabet exploded.
Each twist
of my tongue
is a taste of what I last said
about a page you read,
a red horse, a blue pony.
Their lips are moving quickly,
mouths open as if to sing
but again, groans blurred consonants,
the rolling hiss of tires on wet roads.
It seems things
happens in another room
where a door is ajar,
red pony, blue moon,
My voice recedes
as you stare
and my words
become thick and clumsy
like some unheard thing,
bled roon, mule poony
Half of each word
blockish, thick,
taste of blood.
Trees roll past,
church spires,
powerlines,
someone talking to someone
on phones of no color.
No comments:
Post a Comment