Saturday, April 17, 2010


Seems like it's always
almost morning out here
where the music is.
A stalled moment flows

in fits, then stops again.
A tree the wind's
trying to uproot
clenches its fist

in defense of inertia.
Horses share an old joke
in the only barn
that matters. A language

the light can't master
slowly translates itself.

1 comment:

  1. This is where you would post a comment if you were inclined to do so.