by Charles Farrell Thielman
Sails Rigged, The Ocean Roils
Scars stitched across the plains’ hardtack
silvered by the ragged light of a pure crescent
I stand on a cliff edge, blue highway turn-out
How did I get here. seeing this moon as she bare
shoulders her sequined robe above the jewels
of small towns. My thirst for salt fogs, waves
crashing against volcanic spires, rip-tide challenges
My high beams carve the dark, the neon of towns
I have blinked away needs, working overtime
shipping products to build what I want, this camper van
road tested, Minnesota’s rivers, lakes, dog watching
the traffic, cold stars arc in the music of darkness
jobs disappearing below the flung bets of bankers
Golden arches beam along avenues, on gulags
jungles, myopic mylar covers diversities, visions
Was it in the dreams of coal-crusted miners
re-surfacing with gold nuggets in their pockets
not seeing how bighorn sheep thread mountain edges
how their eyes reflect orchards, osprey
as rivers roll past dunes carved by gusts
Rip-tides incoming, see how those jetty
arms hold wooden ships, lanterns aglow
Comments