Song for Bonzo,
wiry stuff retired

Sao Paulo, 24.09.13

 

The painter's crib at dawn

was howled off the face, 

like rags of drizzled frost

hollowed at the bones.

The toad that sat across

would excavate the sound

and chide the end of girth,

the shapes above the ground.


With nothing to uphold,

the painter lags in-flight,

blowing off the ashtray,

the grime that coats his plight. 

 

Wiry stuff retired

my own placid flight. 

(I left the fountain on the yard,

the crows to scale the night,

the flash to scold the carpet;

I left the face I'd yearned,

edging on a crowd,

waiting on his turn.)

  • wiry stuff retired
  • -
  • mezi
00:00 / 00:00

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