And in no land I walk through ferns

Where friends I now no longer know

Wade into slippery streams, dive in dark pools and take no notice.

My life, a hundred times transcribed in conversation,

Telephoned in microwaves that are absorbed in childhood forests,

adolescent mountains, becomes but heat.

Weak signals of myself arrive

And cool like love songs through a wire.

Be Sociable, Share!
This entry was posted in Poetry. Bookmark the permalink.

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.