January 03, 2008

WOOD

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Not pylons estranged friends

 

 

Hold aloft electricity cables

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Table reuses blessing


 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Small white graves walk along the road

 

 

Voice leads where meteor touches tooth

 

 

 


 

 

 

Sea defences made of clocks

 

 

Before acoustic cousins arrive

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Loving old stories

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

All burnt porridge

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

One final telling

 

 


 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

One carriage train slowly crossing from recto to verso

 

 

On the flooded tracks now of course my pen will not work

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


 

 

A knowledge of loose hair

 

 

 

Followed across rough seas

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Story boils milk

 

 

 

Sweat wire wool

 

 

 

 


 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The woodland one week old the trees

 

 

 

Barely visible above ground the emphasis

 

 

—David Berridge
____
previously appeared in part in Noon: A Journal of the Short Poem

 

Posted by dwaber at 02:18 PM