No levels, no Jesus in the hay loft.
I should like to raise you to the ground.
No, not raze. You are open plan;
horizons meet in you. From an angle.
A decaying shell with echoes…
A burnt out love mattress juts
the ironist of springs, penetration
is all consuming, here, in this
ruined place. The wind can gather;
orchestrate tin cans, blow above
one sheer cider bottle, then leave
exhumed by the very bleakness
that portends your potential, that
sketches the incurvate - a head in hand.
Good to hear from you again Kris. I see you haven't lost your touch...some nice phrasing and imagery here; I particularly like the picture of the wind orchestrating tin cans and blowing above "one sheer cider bottle."
Joe