It is an hour before dawn and even prophets sleep on their beds of gravel. Dreams of fish & hemlines. The scissors moves across the paper and through the beard. It doesn't know enough or when to stop. The bear tires of his bicycle but he's strapped on with straps of silver and gold straps inlaid with scalps. We are imperturbable as deer whose ancestors saw the last man and passed on the sweet knowledge by shitting on graves. Let us arrange to meet sometime in transit, we'll all take the same train perhaps, Cendrars's Express or the defunct Wabash. Her swoon was officially interminable with unconvincing geometric convulsions, no doubt her civic theater experience. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE PARADOX by PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR BIRTH by ANNIE RAYMOND STILLMAN MY WIFE'S COUSIN, SELECTION by WILLIAM EDMONSTOUNE AYTOUN A WEATHER PROPHET by JANE BARLOW BRYANT'S BIRTHPLACE by CHARLOTTE FISKE BATES THE HERITAGE FOREGONE by WILLIAM ROSE BENET |