Tuesday, July 27, 2010

What if poetry were motorized? Winged?

You mean it isn’t?



It’s a fact. Food, too, travels by motor and by wing.

1 comment:

  1. in the coffee shop up in masssachusetts

    she's just a little gallop by the bay
    and her imagination is off and running
    oh those fields she used to run through
    baseballs and boys playing her time
    now of course the velocity is scattered
    and in the frequent crossing of streets
    and pettibones the world is largely
    loud
    it isn't often says the cash register fixit man that we come across a clunker like this
    but I couldn't let it go says the owner
    when something works, your angles slant
    toward heaven,
    your days are smooth as silver,
    and the words, they just leave you
    as easy as summer tends to please

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