Two afternoons


Wave upon wave of watery whisper
wreck havoc on an afternoon
where voices fall and break
in a see-through fashion
and a wispy intent.

I am the dismal mirror
that absorbs and reflects
flying discussions
with I comment still enfolded
in the spheres of care
no man can call his own.

The mussel merging sea
crabs the little boy
running with bleeding earth
where rain is tall
and old mountains
never stop calling the deep
by its watery name.




Poetry by Bob
Read 408 times
Written on 2011-05-30 at 19:55

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