Monday, February 19, 2018

Sixteen spokes

Outline of a pome i won't be able to finish.
It runs about thus.

Sixteen spokes.

And the grey sheets of rain
the threateningly dark green

and the shattered earth and
wagons rocking in the sleet
creaking wheels and

sixteen spokes

And the toddlers playing
hide and seek in the mud

tent canvas stiff and cold
in the predawn raising
them slick heavy poles

the wheel repairman mutter
under a frozen breath and over
them broken

Sixteen spokes.

The color of blood.

Ruby Soho streaming through the paper walls, my neighbor listening to the radio, having his habitual breakfast on vodka and cigarettes.

And I can finish it as much as I could start it.

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