Monday, 28 December 2009

Spiriting future

Day rotates thru night and the quiet, sulkily departs,

but, before the frost begins,

a screech rents the air.

"Punta. You tart," splits the silent night in twain.

When did I start dreaming in Spanish?


And i'm aroused...

To find the windows slight crack's filtering sounds,

no longer braced by fully formed foam.

A girl/wife/missus in flagrante with a brother/father/son's been found?

Then, as the fallen plug's popped, the last few hours skid,

into a filed abyss late 20 10,

riding blossoming morning sun.

No comments:

Post a Comment