| |
The distant past strikes us as reflective.
Boastful sounds, in that cold Atlantic
Start beneath the moon and grows outward to
The size of busy motel rooms.
Yet this side of the beach is most private,
Most like the split heart in its emptiness,
Bemused by a confetti of feelings.
I wonder: which way to turn, vague sand, or to
My own inscrutable machinations?
Such silence, is the totality of sea.
Such fate, as how it touches the doomed sand,
Brackish, against the dusty, wind dazed dunes.
Late summer slips in, and the jetty sears
Its image, on what is left of promises.
Sam Elliot dreams start the change in the soul,
precise but, at once, nebulous, the entrance
to partisan wars, and unhappy parents
who saw more than cool, naked desires.
I make this decision - building up local fame,
So relative, as to be unnoticed, like a tomb.
Skein against the sky moves like the future.
Lamont Palmer
|
|
User Rating: |
|
--
/10
(0 votes) |
|
|
|
E-mail this poem to e friend