Sunday, November 21, 2010


Can't shake of this bug: sure these last two poems are products of fever.

I Dreamed all Day

Clouds were embers in the morning sky.
The sun swooped like a bird
behind the tree line

on a land green as eels.
Against all prevailing inclinations
I was blown south

to a place with many people:
each step of mine broke
on their small smiles.

Night fell after that, like a drunk,
down through all the compass depths.
Only in the dark,

lights hung like silver. I stopped
the bus driver then, to make sure
your eyes were aboard.


Titus said...

Lovely poem, but don't care. You're not getting out of Tuesday night.

hope said...

My Mom swears hot tea cures everything...I'm sure you can find something other than honey or sugar to put in yours. ;)

Feel better....your words are looking just fine!

mapstew said...

Hot Whisk(e)y!
In large portions! :¬)

Word Verification = restome!

Gordon Mason said...

Quite a trip to be on for a fever. Liked the concluding image.

Jean Atkin said...

I do like 'night fell after that, like a drunk' - that's actually a very good observation of November. Get well soon.