• Old Poetry

    18 Dec 2008 /  Poetry

    It’s winter and I can no longer uncouple the roots from the soil,
    so I work at untangling the branches from the sky.
    My fingers become numb as dusk silently closes the bar
    with no “Last Call.”  Drunk mermaids have emerged
    from Prufrock’s final stanzas to giggle, each to each.

    Adept at retrieving their sotted souls
    from the basin of their ignorance,
    I single out a blonde
    and whisper something bluer than her eyes
    as she holds onto my arm like
    a lost saint.

    Posted by Scott @ 2:23 pm

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