This Particular Sunday: A Monument
Is being built northeast of town
on a rusted field of birds and grass.
Thickets hum dark past the verge.
A seahorse cloud floats
over a shell of dusty leaves
talking above us.
The monument
to this particular Sunday
grows in the shadows tonight,
a moonplant.
As the orchestras of Italy
practice the first few bars
of the monument
to this particular Sunday,
gaffers tilt the stars.
posted by Sean @ 7:53 PM
2 comments
2 Comments:
Old man likes it but thinks third line is a tad turgid. He loves for number two son to write poetry tho.
I appreciate the last line, the imagery it creates, but I also don't like it because it takes away glory from Jehovah God, our Creator.
Post a Comment
<< Home