by Gideon Burton
A rusty lather clogs the river bed
and presses knobby claws against the boats
meandering along the muddy red
of vented evanescence. Sugars bloat
the blurry froth. They spend illusions hot
and sharp along the hour’s stony throat.
Whatever quivers, groveling, or caught
in viscous, hidden snares within the moat
of consolation–bellies soft or breast,
a tarpaulin to veil the stinging breeze
or summon desert dusts to drown the west,
a gesture of the heavens’ failing ease–
I’m listening, content to scan the score,
to drink the cup and drinking thirst for more.
Photo: flickr - ourmanwhere
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