Friday, September 8, 2017

James Walton #71 Are we there yet




every night
crawls through seven decades
under central station,

the cleaner
hands unprotected collects
the bower things,

every morning
alights a broke down rainbow
the spaces between,

life’s winks
opening cedar sheeted drawers
of gifted catalogues,

each afternoon
tenderness of archivist’s gloves
fading lines restless,

these days
unbound of all routine vessels
nuzzled in memory,

each evening
in ballads of warming radiators
another bout prevails,

every one’s
dust jacket heart pushing lyrics
beyond known perimeters.

















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