Sunday, October 20, 2013

When a burnt sienna spray

When a burnt sienna spray calls into question
the demonic as a matter of recognition white,
a risen pyramid hirsute frames a sweet vise in
a  mind that simple waits a yardbird screaming

mean blues harp matters when she she she goes
goes goes apeshit 'cause her red shirt blinds you're
already blind and recognition is a small compense.

She stared she scared in Pythagorean angles square
and solids were, well, another golden matter then.

Wrinkles for sure but also endless love unending.

1 comment:

  1. Gerry,

    Nice to find this evening delicacy as my day endeth here...Might be an alternative version of that old Botox Blues.....:) Eileen