the twit

    2.22.2009

    poempost: another from the hermitage

    cabin: afternoon

    the drunk wasps--they
    come from under the wall.

    the farthest they make
    it is the screened windows,
    my chair, the light

    in the kitchen. i kill them
    with my shoe or magazine

    and sweep them under
    the wall, where they are
    reborn. air in the ice

    in the bourbon whistles;
    it either rains or snows.

    1 comment:

    Anonymous said...

    "..once you get a distance, you can develop an esthetic for things that oppressed you.." Alison E. Taylor, artist