slips on the night edge
of fence pickets
this ticket is going where
where the sun is hardly anyones
problem
eyes perfectly shuttered up
and homes perfectly flooded
muskrats make the best of it
or so they say seals
in the harbor of some stupid place
where the pace is set by lobsters taking
long rests at the bottom, right near the holy grail
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Why is a man on top always writing poems like a bottom-feeder?
ReplyDeleteThat said,... Good poem!