At midnight
Weird tools you fools oversee
lend themselves to lost lore,
play in waves of sweet blue shades
where saxophones walk ahead,
murmuring nonsense at midnight,
teasing direction's mislaid heed.
Words of deep penetration
flock at rolling water's entry
where pools of hindsight
clone their aspirations,
attempting another context,
giving birth at the fall of courts.
Poetry by Bob
Read 696 times
Written on 2006-04-25 at 21:55
Tags Hindsight Saxophone Midnight
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Pamela A Lamppa |
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 by Bob Latest textsI seldom walkthere’s a rumor there will be no full stop so many regrets who am I |
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