Crossroad, the silos

Her scarf dangled there
like a loose thread.

I guess you could say.

Behind a newspaper you whisper
velcro words that will stick for
some time

as then.

Standing on metaphorical plinth
give an inch

give an inch

on craggy chins
the beard

hides sins.

An empty landscape
a crossroad

a silo, the

train tracks where the trajectory cuts through
the empty landscape of crossroads
silos dusty on the iris
blurred on the lens
here in some outback place
back of beyond the boondocks

the hinterland where ghosts of dead prostitutes litter
the ether and the rain comes down like Indian arrows.


Leave a Reply

Please log in using one of these methods to post your comment: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s