Man of Red River He is a figment of my heart, a word they suggested I retire with angel, with soul, with all those words that tangle in my fan blades and blow into my fresh new cup to taint my poetry of black coffee. Still he rides in, a crazy river with a wooden bridge the slats missing in places that make it impossible for safety a black bird with one wing up his head tucked hard beneath where I cant see As a river, he whistles into cool water and swirls in hopes that a fish will fling high and unwind in a flash of silver sun flight, but even the sun fish has no glitter that can appease his restless drift. Some days he is a river, a bird, a bridge of bad slats until the figment of him is too shifty and I release him to his flow of raging moves and moments forcing hard toward his own dreams where I cant go.
Posted on: Fri, 05 Sep 2014 10:42:53 +0000
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