for Beck with all my love
groups of three and four
flock in the newly
sprigged pasture
strutting in black sheen coats
complaining about
the scarecrow
two stretch into flight
flex slick wings
to perfect pitch
shrinking shadows
twist against the plow
they rise, they fall
below a ceiling of clouds
hoisted by stage hands
disguised as angels
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment