Poems from travelingpoet
A tempest,
a hasty knock,
swept away, planks and branches,
drenched by a collapsing sight.
There's only one window to pass through
for...
That's a clock.
Of course and it always is
a clock
and neither those plain numbers nor these gravels care
about a crash or a bag filled...
How is it like to resume?
Strobe lights and that's a grand foyer.
Was not water.
Grass and more grass,
and a railroad
elongating...