What Comes From The Best Of ItA Poem by PerditionI imagine Kay Ryan in a black café Hands pouring onto a blank page She holds a cup of gracious mirage She is thinking In self-deemed reward She is thinking Her table bends to a strange amalgamation The extent in selfless refrain She slips into momentary frame... Late hour boxcars and whistle jabbers sing the muscle of Her sleep and the whistle tune makes a favorite of the midnight engineer The bustling scurry soon crawls into her nights best steam Mojave shadows curtain the well of stall Her memory refines a lust from a long ago invisible trust And startles her tiny frame Kay Ryan slips into the inches of water and
brew Her siege like virga falls She is straddled in lust Fists of riot-beat cargo smash against the café glass Her cup of tin regard ignites Her worrisome hands shake and The hour of table bends The least of legs struggle to stand in dismal room as her pages
begin to fill I think of Kay Ryan A woman in a black café The cubes of clouds that hover in primeval ghost ink shell She stands in white cloth A scarf knit from the days redemption A look of redemption portrayed in her dress Gathering pages She boards the flight at noon The café slows Ogles to a warped stage The clock hands now fogged Tables tower in the room I imagine the air in graced As the café in once again begins to stir © 2016 PerditionReviews
|
Stats
287 Views
3 Reviews Added on February 23, 2016 Last Updated on April 8, 2016 |