A stab in the dark 12
12
Teenage girls, scrawny
like unfed geese in the spring,
float through harbor attention
on their way to blue ocean's loss
with only a smile to support them.
White froth fills the gate,
terms are not yet drawn.
What dark there is
murmurs in anticipation.
A thrust breaks the oily mirror,
A buoy shines in silver light.
Not yet immortal is all these girls
can ask for.
Cranes are the old man's view
of the continuous aftermath.
Offspring in chemic confusion,
seraphs and historic delusions,
all unfurl their uncertainties
in nights with no further say.
"Must the concept we name days
be caught in midsentence
before what is, is implied?"
The leaded invoice slams the gate,
there will be no more fiasco
at the end of this night.
Ships are moored.
Poetry by Bob
Read 1069 times
Written on 2011-09-15 at 16:36
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