by Bill Yarrow
I woke like an animal
breeding thoughts like flies,
my arms loaves of bread,
my eyes cups of milk.
"Set the sawdust, I'm
hungry for locusts."
They never appeared.
I ran grumbling
for shrubbery. Gone!
The colors have no money left.
The world was a leaf
at the cockpit of dust.
I screamed and it shattered.
Water poured through me.
I ran, a crazed rabbit.
Shots rang out from the bunker
ocean. I was laid low
by the shrapnel of design.
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This poem appeared in Muse Apprentice Guild in 2006.
The poem appears in Pointed Sentences (BlazeVOX, 2012).
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Well *there's* an obtuse comment (=)
I meant to put the + sign!
Jayzus, Bill. How do you do this?
Yes. Fav.
The first 2 lines, the last two - gorgous. Peace...
The Muse was such an interesting venue. The phrasing zings. This maybe my favorite of your works.
"I was laid low/by the shrapnel of design." What a punch of a last line! Fantastic.
Well done, Bill, well done!