Poem: Drifts

Dust swept off the surface.  A poem's flirt with obscurity stalled.  For a while.

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Drifts

clouds drift in leonine fever,
laced with ennui and tinsel,
doomed to stalk the hauteur of a perfect plane.

their scavenge hopeless,
as dismantled as the motives of pterodactyls,
or glassy, strewn toadfish
with swirling gills and fluid ribs.

the drifts, they are road signs
scattered in a lust-drained aftermath,
only hints of lurid pagan beasts.
over-hammered remnants.

but the fire grips them just before night,
renewing their bedlam,
until they sink once again,
no longer ebullient,

anchored to a guttering horizon.


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