Saturday, January 21, 2017


and flies teem on me
in the deep bush
by a swamp
that's wet and deep
and rude 

and climbing a rock
face and gasping
on my back and 
see a crescent

waiting all night
in an old train station
boy toys and hookers
mill beneath the roof
of the greasy spoon
bar there
where all the noise

and this music from 
a lyre that's mute
and silence on
a guitar that's blue
and symphonies
of wind in trees
and a great bath
above the soot

liver-dark urine
in a sunlit kitchen
27 mice in the closet
and a cat that's new

Van Gogh cycles
a paint so yellow
it kisses sunlight
like a nun the truth.

(C)2013 by W.G. Milne

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