is neither mosquito free
nor beautiful;
pond scum ridden, black water
at night as if at dusk it forgets
how to glimmer and be light
on its lean long legs.
Lepner's pond shudders as the breeze plays
sleight across its surface and goose
bumps line its face. (nor beautiful,) but
home is even in the mosquitos'
familiar twitch,
an echo
of something almost out of reach.
*It took so fucking long, but I finally got this bitch out. Lepner's Pond, I present to thee, my poem. Other than this, I haven't written in ages - I feel sad and blocked up. Maybe fiber ought help?
1 comment:
mr. bic: your contribution and effort are duly appreciated (and adored, and adored). we need to resurrect this sucker...but not quite yet. let's collaborate with mr. papas and etcs soon.
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