Monday, December 27, 2004

Early Morning Rain

Choke the birds from the sky
littered in abattior rot
Feather and bone festooned fence lines
though in the sky not

Sheer'd in night drape
weeping lake bridged stone
Burnt and finally broken
quiet yet becoming alone

Gleam on glass prism in breaks
drive with wind still and lace
Lye like linen palsy and shake
Tie with ribbon bleed in place

Drink til violence claims sleep
in widow ears tremors creep

Finally tying up the poetry process. Well i think one thing stands out is the jumps you get when you don't write a poem straight through. It seems all messed up like the ones in the New Yorker, not a compliment. Also you get the modes jumping and shifting abit. I would almost rip this appart and make pieces of it. But i dont really care for it that much to save bits. Its here if i must come back to it.


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