Bus
It's a slow suspend of ourveering selves.
It's a slower scape from our
colliding wake.
This sequence of never worn
happening is happening
now, and full of
time to delve
under and over
and out.
These scenes of leaning
cities, leaning on our
will's of wit and
ready.
Unfolding and molding
a land to bare
a naked and sacred sense
of same, tangled with
a sense of
more to
wear.
We can decide to suspend
our veer and stay
here and
stray.
We can, but we'll miss our
bus.
Poetry by Mathieu
Read 692 times
Written on 2007-12-20 at 23:35
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