The whole aim, the whole movement
started growing wild;
controlled uncontrollable tornado dreams
lashing back over black and green,
balking, it would seem, into the face of dodging
steam;
the grain of salt and mystery that popped
and left remains: charred tinder whispers
and one gone blistered dimple sentence.
Monday, May 23, 2011
Poem-A-Day: Day 557
Cycle 17
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Drop a line, a quip, a snippet, your pants, or an anecdote...just don't drop the soap.