Saturday, October 11, 2008

Selected Fragments

my brother calls from his basement

a rusty coffee can

lava rippling down a mountain

dressed in black satin and feathers

a dislocated thumb

as people age, their shoes last longer

who would ever believe a dog could fly?

wet as a dumped basket of fish

tipping two spoonfuls of lead pigment into your cup

the twins howling in the backyard

your face as unfolded as a five-year-old's

a German woman with an aria

run over by very heavy, very tiny trucks

as if there's a hand or robe over the phone

she guarantees him nothing

1 comment:

As Bjorn said...

very heavy, very tiny trucks

poetry's real language is always metaphor as this poem shows us so well

in the end, a loop, or a loup garou
something like that