stealing signs
flabbergasted
by legerdemain
slight of hand
and misdirection
I, poem says, will
often miss the point...
the scent of you
cannot be masked...
a surreal bright flash
I didn't see
felt only
blinders on,
tuning to the parade decay
death when nights first knife
into bone ripe bodies
of once was
sweet somber(s)
little leaves slow burns
turning paper bells
scattering prattles
what of it...our mutual interests
and needs...frost and gourds...
nurturing the nesting daring...
and have you of course
cup waiting fill
of the road ripe
our desire will
still be wearing...
our eyes, having sworn
allegiance to the brain
begin promising again,
not to grow
too mad
with cabin fever
this Winter...
nose knows better...
keeps much wine
at the ready...
EJR ©
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