Finnegan saw in the choppy
water an anarchy of words,
a white-capped anarchy of words
the pen of his oar
could give order to.
The inky river seethed,
the river determined not to receive
editing of any kind,
the wild-worded, white-capped
river the rower's pen
sought to give order to,
sought to make sense of.
Finnegan oared the inky
anarchy of the river,
oared the inky will of the wild-
worded river, watched
as Icarus touched
the sun, set fire
to the river, burning away
the anarchy until the sun
had drawn on the water its bloom
of light in Finnegan's wake.
Philip Kuepper
(27 August 2013)
No comments:
Post a Comment