Subject
*Dark Ice* VI (fwd)
Date
Body
VI
Somehow I don't feel elegiac,
A pile of books in front of me
In prose that turns the most prosaic
Things into--well, poetry.
Sunlight wobbles, fritillary
(All its yellow stipples vary)
260 Over vowel-scattered trails
That grade into those fairytales
Of "follies tricked out so brightly that they"
Blend into the blinding page--
It's difficult to disengage--
When birds forget glass-dazzle's flat, they
Feel your pane. This cold can scorch.
(A rake leans near a rented porch.)
Somehow I don't feel elegiac,
A pile of books in front of me
In prose that turns the most prosaic
Things into--well, poetry.
Sunlight wobbles, fritillary
(All its yellow stipples vary)
260 Over vowel-scattered trails
That grade into those fairytales
Of "follies tricked out so brightly that they"
Blend into the blinding page--
It's difficult to disengage--
When birds forget glass-dazzle's flat, they
Feel your pane. This cold can scorch.
(A rake leans near a rented porch.)