for Edward Baugh Flashing silk phantoms from the promontory, when seen at dark rushing to their beds, those lights corroding over Navy Island, never grow old. In two enamel basins, fill water to wash overripe stars, eaten without second guess, worm and all, from veranda chairs, where no guilt brims over, whatsoever. As frost, unknown, intimate breath bursts hot its kind silence. Get up, go greet Errol Flynn's ghost at the empty footbridge, leaning on the breeze. Maroons hum out of hills, restless as unappeased trees, ringing, "Even days coming are already gone too soon," then return before the river's lustre hides their voices and immeasurable slow leaves bring down our morning. |
0 comments:
Post a Comment