Thursday, May 8, 2014

Poem: Ajar


Bushings in the wheel of passion we
suck to the rhythm of a paycheck,
make up the tune as we go along,
do what we must to keep the
oxygen coming in.

Our consequent yapping does nothing.
We stand in a landscape missing
countries of sienna, azure, cinnamon.
Digits hung upon the air,
threatening altercation.

I have no advice wouldn’t
offer it if I did just
swing that jaw till the
hinges break.

I will be hence,
atop the thirteenth yonder,
a ripple of quiet on my sleeve,
ash from a tender volcano.

From the collection Fields of Satchmo 
Photo by MJV

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