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The moon hides when I’m hard

Grape Kool-Aid
Choking
Or I fall in an anchored room
O Spring: your lamps blare into the street

This sudden comfort, unhinged and surprised
The Agent redraws her sight
Glazed
These clouds spinning over the parking lot

The Street
We take turns coming
Once a week
The moon hides when I’m hard

Arial, Helvitca, Sans-Serif
I carry with me the grid on which I saw it all

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Posted by Lewis LaCook at 11:20 am | Postmodern Poetry | Permalink

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