by Gideon Burton
I will retreat to quiet words and few
enough to tender novel names for rain,
for sleep, for islands washed by rivers through
the thin conclusions of this season's vain
recital of the fragment elements.
They shape themselves to moister paths and long
conveyances of sound, the echoes spent
and spent again compounding in the strong
and warming currents, mouths inside of mouths
along these thin agreements, breath by breath,
by any reckoning a distant south
to thought, as chilling in its focused rest
as sleeping burdens waking, fog and mist,
a melding image, tongueless pushing fists.
Feel free to copy, imitate, remix, or redistribute this poem as long as you give proper acknowledgment of authorship. Photo: flickr - tanakawho
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