Tuesday, April 6, 2010

when nine-hundred and sixty sound few

when nine-hundred and sixty sound few
and the ones which already flew

(a flock of a dozen or more,
each of seven squares, no more,
linked-up, hip bone to hip bone)

are forever gone,

i stand—
at a loss for words,
granite faced,

tired, yet a bastard,
prepared to vomit—

will and clenched hands
and whatever else i can,
i do.


Wine and Words said...

I'm captivated, though I am oblivious to the true meaning here. But I sense an inner struggle, a fight against becoming numb and desensitized.

Noxalio said...

ah, you correctly
caught the struggle,
and no matter what it's about
there always seems to be some, no?

thank you for your astute
reading and for your

my enemy these days
seems to be the slippery
nature of time,
for some reason,
weeks seem like days
or even