“A poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds.” -Percy Bysshe Shelley
Sunday, February 26, 2017
Abundance
We mind rarified
elementary considerations such as
helium and hope that just
stream out the o-zone.
While we worry about coal gluttons
and electric vampires,
the signal still comes
in crystal glints,
colors are just
extraneous.
The most resourceful
were generous
making love-
concurrently, we are
interfering.
Simultaneously
sucked in
shiny silicon i's.
Unwound and seriously
needing respooling.
Image credit Hugo Gerhard Ströhl [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
Feather weather
Before I arose the tangerine sunrise squeezed its citrus air through my bedroom window dripping fresh pulpy nectar of a new day onto the co...
-
Water Today, warm raindrops glass blurs, the blurry glassy, sharp sparkles sugar. Behind Evening, it was good. Leaves all turned into shadow...
-
1. Of my Soul a street is: Preternatural Pic- abian tricktrickclickflidk-er garner of starfish Picasso...
-
The ship sailed West on Sunday The wind was too wild on Wednesday Our arrow plane rips the paper sky, severing space for itself, i...

No comments:
Post a Comment