a dream about a close friend with whom I lost touch for a time
Sean
I see you dimly
in front of me sprinting
past cars, turnpike entrances—
a sequential blurred trail
of movement through the fogged windshield glass.
Running
you are an incarnation
of speed, fermented weevil
aspiring-towards intrepidity
circumnavigating
vehicles, cyclists, people
barely seen in the emporium of frozen
time in which you juggle tiny increments
of holistic motion—an organic yoga
of the disembodied physicality
of abrupt disappearances
into intangibility
noiselessly transgressing
the quiet ironies of a languid light;
whispering to a sudden stop
behind a yellow-Volkswagen in time
to encounter a small speckled thrush
which you quickly swallow before accelerating back
into the mescaline-prism of smoked sunlight's fanned-barbs.
The rose wilt of your evaporate breath screams greeting
in a language comprised mostly of the-seconds-after the wave
swamps wind's unremarked upon passing-by.
You have become lost to me;
a foreign country just outside
language.
JZRothstein 2013
Poetry by Jeffrey Z Rothstein
Read 867 times
Written on 2014-03-17 at 20:38
Save as a bookmark (requires login)
Write a comment (requires login)
Send as email (requires login)
Print text
Friend Sean B
Sean
I see you dimly
in front of me sprinting
past cars, turnpike entrances—
a sequential blurred trail
of movement through the fogged windshield glass.
Running
you are an incarnation
of speed, fermented weevil
aspiring-towards intrepidity
circumnavigating
vehicles, cyclists, people
barely seen in the emporium of frozen
time in which you juggle tiny increments
of holistic motion—an organic yoga
of the disembodied physicality
of abrupt disappearances
into intangibility
noiselessly transgressing
the quiet ironies of a languid light;
whispering to a sudden stop
behind a yellow-Volkswagen in time
to encounter a small speckled thrush
which you quickly swallow before accelerating back
into the mescaline-prism of smoked sunlight's fanned-barbs.
The rose wilt of your evaporate breath screams greeting
in a language comprised mostly of the-seconds-after the wave
swamps wind's unremarked upon passing-by.
You have become lost to me;
a foreign country just outside
language.
JZRothstein 2013
Poetry by Jeffrey Z Rothstein
Read 867 times
Written on 2014-03-17 at 20:38
Save as a bookmark (requires login) Write a comment (requires login) Send as email (requires login) Print text
|
Nabeela Altaf |
