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A Stab in the Dark 14




There is no hidden agenda
Old man can count on,
no cheerful day, tap dancing
to fireflies and girls
on their way to the meat market.
Streets of silver
beg him to see the fracture.


Bones that melted for Paganini
reinvents the way he falls,
a soft surrender flowing
beneath cold sun humming.
He carries tall trees with him
and the dying of winds
that rest in the grass.


Pale bones and summers
where once wooden flutes echoed
out of groins in silent laughter
talk to a descending sea.


Fierce is the fire that feeds
on false sainthood and salt,
on naked arms in cloth.
Watermills move with gullibility
to stiff collars at high noon.


Sureties are pale words on waves
rolling wet sand to a dry shore.
A cat's smile may fold in silence
under dark water dreams.


Wild to the obnoxious bone
he tells his tale to the crowd
with no hope of a here after the bell,
with nothing more so ungraspable.


Stretched, corrupted and lost
in the brevity of human commotion
he ploughs the earth in his own fashion
grieving for the end of days to name.


Going down with thunder,
leaving the fat fabric of clouds
in a thick wake of yesterday,
– there is much umbra –
he separates daybreak from wild water.


He will not die in dread of fear,
nor tolerate the coming of mean storms.
All is salt, vinegar and fried fish in tears,
all is shape, longing and seaweed.




Poetry by Bob
Read 569 times
Written on 2015-12-12 at 18:00

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