Beneath
a Pirate Moon
A
pirate moon smokes a cigarette
out
the sky truck’s open windshield
-Your
sense of it contradicts mine
yet
sounds how a wheatfield smells
Of
course I’m always wrong but ye hear
th’
insects gnawing off a brutal freedom
gaging
time and space secretly weighed
as
wind and sound depart tangibly
I
say military-encoded music is naught:
Frisbeed
tunes blurred upside sheer sense
But
a moon’s bluish undercourse may wobble
to
squall me in my watery independence
like
soot-sinewed breezes fuddle pussycats
and
pirate moons blight all false liberty
No comments:
Post a Comment