lo, and behold

Stemming from my original mission to create 365 poems. A culmination of years past and days present.


7 November 2005

53: Yards

Time gambled, fear played, voice withdrawn to a shape.
Old relations, trees whistling dust, wind sleeping, defunct mischief:
Grab the gun, son!
Get 'em all awake!
Dry those clammy hands, give that man an old hit.
All else is loaded, but the pop-cork bang - insignificant.
(1, 2, 3)
You see?