August 31, 2012

poem 297 of a poem a day for 2012

the butterflies are playing bingo

your bags are packed
and you are looking
down the boulevard
to see the billboards calling
in the fantasy language
of seaside resorts offering
their whelp stays

you slow down
while tangled
in thoughts 
of plank wood
and pink salts
with the conditions
for slow desiccation
of your ripe
a perfect basket
catch, in the tides

the drive of the wind here
is a clock of knives
that carves the smell
of every memory
that stays in you
long after you have left
any of those places
on the other side
of these billboards

the great water knows
how to touch a soul
the way a map and treasure
might torch a mind
in slow, roiling and
boiling pots of desire
bitten with black iron
held over the driftwood fire
you might have dug
into the sand to feel
the hold of the day's heat
it is slowly releasing
like your anticipation
in the car seat
in the hiss wash
sound of steam
wave after wave
you have become 
lost in


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