White Ghost Dust by Christopher A. Lane

Back to Poetry

listening to the doors: bang in my head, compartments, cupboards state rooms driven to white ghost dust, a prudent man would clean house more often but we cannot stop for long, the whirling Mexican tops ride the horizon - pink/turquoise - until they fall and we all, falling, lie still in darkness: yesterday was better and tomorrow will be better and this moment is an elongated abstraction of pain (always).  the mighty concrete giant is a pastel beauty shifting with each terrific moan:  yes, and the wind, wild and wide-eyed but must be content (isn't) to ruffle skirts and steal hats and pester old women scudding along the crayon streets satisfaction (love?) cannot be accessed through the orange door it leads to a mirror and a toilet

Contact Christopher A. Lane at: ShamblinGait@aol.com