Poetry · Writing

silver key

yielding at gates

crossing would be the end-

watching from the window

chariots and kids screaming with bows and bows

gods feeding horses

thunder storms at the tips of fingers

the heat of the furnace lingers:

crossing would be the end-

pleasure on a patterned plate

love on patterned sheets

sleets of snow below my feet

and now i am yielded at the gates-

watching kids play with bows and bows

and i see the end in bright lights

a silver key in my left and the lock in my right

but

i don’t belong

banana loaf as tribute

might as well be mud pie

for tribute to a god

 

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