photo from pixabay
I'm sure the main distraction is the fan blades gentle whir. They always seem much faster if you stab your finger through. Eventually in empty gray skies, it’s high time we show promise. At times we are warmer other times in wet snow. We were eating just a little, but now we eat much more. The smells of cooked fish assaulting me after I wake. It’s in the pan without a handle, assumed by a grip of her finger. In the house like a cave with a roof full of holes time passes in a lullaby. We’re looking to regain a mostly serious magic, in all its sundry brands.
Cast in Another Life
Things will never be better than the way they are now. We’ll see no better dizzy from the sun, than it’s panoramas. It has its impossible obligations, at high noon shirked and denied. Because it’s unbearable, the wait for bright light, when you lose eyesight. As desperate compensation, there’s redness in both feet, and more redness in hands. More from frost, than warm coals. Charred coals like cat's eyes fiery to touch. The touch like a gladhand from estranged neighbors.
Bio: Michael Igoe, neurodiverse city boy, Chicago now Boston, recovery staff at Boston University Center For Psych Rehab. Many works appear in journals online and print. Recent: Spare Change News(Cambridge MA), thebluenib.com, minerallit.com. Avalanches In Poetry Anthology@amazon.com. National Library Of Poetry Editor’s Choice For 1997. Twitter: MichaelIgoe5. poetryinmotion416254859.wordpress.com. Urban Realism, Surrealism. I like the Night.
Wonderfully unique poetry!
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