How merciful, the puppeteer
to fabricate a bridge
from old kitchen utensils
and unused string.
Matchbox cars align
imperfect on his
hand sculpted streets.
I gaze up--
his oil-slick sky made from vinegars
and dark polish suspend
stretched cotton ball clouds confused
with the boiling pot of industry.
And there,
the light bulb moon,
a-hummin' and flickering
among fireflies' flume
There's even a breeze
lithe, yet thick as a sigh
and untouchable lengths that go
ocean wide and beyond
the undetected eye of
this benevolent craftsman.
How beautiful his prison,
how artful the disguise.
No comments:
Post a Comment