for S. Delany
November 14, 2018 at 3:32 pm Leave a comment
for S. Delany
tormented and wounded
in her words’ tearing lurch, he
be-sandalled and be-spectacled
had wandered the tired
the metalled street
and tasted the stale fog/perhaps-smog
of three o’clock of a weekday
three o’clock in a greyed City morning
considering various
heroes, villains, and other fools,
having
run from the worded woman
who skewers him at times
with her merest glance
but has birthed these various
worlds, these unlikely
(and moving) protagonists; when
i stiffen in my last breath,
surely,
i shall see Kid Death
Entry filed under: Ancient Poetry, social psychology, voices. Tags: for s delany, poetry from voices.
Trackback this post | Subscribe to the comments via RSS Feed