John Bowman

this fatigue no                                          bike-wreck. sick
                                                                       or surge-strewn
summer
hove against those                                 shores. dry tips
                                                                       of nerve, of grass
rustling by telephone.
to paw                                                          through nettle patches,
                                                                        piqued and dimmer here
in daylit district.
city flutters, different                           every hour. if
                                                                        only grass were
edged in brazen,
thoughtless eyes. can
one help but scavenge                          daily any voice.

Posted 08/09/10