it is hard to say until it is over
if she is right or wrong
until the sun in the west
hangs over her eastern shoulder
energy spent
like a box of expired batteries
with no need for conditioning
dry in the air of a distant typhoon
she sits with locals of the night
under the sweeping swoon
of a hidden tropical moon
motionless silhouettes
an aura round their southerly tummies
beetle nut feedback buzzing heads
oscillating with tobacco and beer
fading in, taking shape, fading out
like wading through a whiskey river
with a ladle in her hand
walking a wet moonlit trail home
unafraid of being frail
unafraid of being alone
August 19, 2017
No comments:
Post a Comment