3
Nighttime grid defines this manhunt,
a heavy splatter on the concrete.
How the heavens stir!
Like being licked, little pot roast?
Are you still up, lambchop?
Wrap your hands around this
soft, raw fruit of our wet city.
Stacks of light follow both directions,
unbound, a more expressive
horizon.
2 comments:
It was nice to see you last night, if I'm remembering it right. I like this poem the best of the three so far, so, for my sake, keep it up!
This poem's even better in the morning. Er -- afternoon, that is...
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