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Fred |
And I am a clay pot, too. I squat, forgotten,
in the corner where the carpet still looks new.
From hunger to hunger the lead-beast pulls
its wagon of flesh past hard plates and abrasive walls.
My magnetized, steel-throated tunnel of a mind
still traipses through the marsh,
to another place and time.
I follow my feet and still they lead,
from dusty hillocks and abraded desert
to screaming lakes of necessary vacuum.
I go Novembering, Decembering, babbling
into brook-fast streams of milk and shredded wheat,
Trudge-running toward something made of
dusk mixed with morning, an unfolding sestina
which drapes the hills with dust-light,
licks the sky with sodden flames.
Labels: Fred
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