Some say the tambourine holds the scurrile of its own shake
‘tween its rind and rims
casting chatter like an obligation
on our listening while we baste the scolded, sunsetter
skies with glances, calls, utter and tormented staring, and base hope.
I believe the percussive rings rattle longer for wantonness
Like the dying path of lightening on closed eyes
or
more perfect remembrance of thunder through thumbtips on a hazard steering wheel
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment