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Coyote


My body is a loco-motion machine

I sit still
and feel its urge for going

I move,
and miles are my meditation

Coyote is my mind-boggler,
smart and clumsy,
unpredictable

I can take it much easier,
enter Marcel Proust's search,
let the hours rock slowly
on the swell of night and day

I see Time pulling down its hat,
drawing the trenchcoat tighter;
the ceremonial drum still audible
deep in the meat totem

Cosmos is the Shaman,
the skeleton a sketch
and a bird of prey

I imagine myself
in a few pencil strokes
across acid-free notebook paper, plain,
my soft parts climbed-up,
the bird winging away, always,
through dusk and dawn

Time is a meat-grinder and a funeral pyre,
my consciousness the echo of a cough;
a sudden awareness
of something that almost hasn't happened

I grapple with something
that others seem to take for granted;
that echo
that I though I almost heard

I get out of bed,
my feet negotiating the cold December floor,
head up here like a satellite,
skeleton wiggly below me
on bony mechanics,
barely balancing its act;
a cartoon figure
out to feed the horses,
feed the wood burner:

observations - no matter how insignificant -
queuing to become poems
for posterity





Fri vers (Fri form) av Ingvar Loco Nordin VIP
Läst 64 gånger och applåderad av 1 personer
Publicerad 2021-12-09 13:51



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