The arrows only point in straight directions
from A to P to Y not away from them
into pi never-ending on a Merry March hare day
and the number eight on its side becomes the sign for infinity
forever,
if left alone and lone against a clock
with only one hand ticking moving backwards to some,
the way I wish it would turnabout and out....
an opera ever bobbing on a sea of amber jewelry
escaping diasporas and mistrals from a brittle horny land of honey and
sour milks, curds and ways that arrows only point to.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment