It scares me:
asphalt taunting water
(too close),
a makeshift bridge
(last week’s landslide),
the wet-dark wood
of a pit stop in the trees.
And yet:
as we’re raked back by gravel tides,
as the damp outside slaps us around
(a toy car on the mountain’s brim)—
Morrissey still finds the time
to whine and ache,
to keep us dry.
How Soon Is Now?
bessore
bessore
Posted underProse & PoetryThe BucketUncategorized
