|
Prophecies Cloud Your Voice
by Shirin SwiftSilent timbres dope me to take mountains seriously,
I trespass mercilessly in terrains of vulnerability, restraint spilt
into translucent hydrangeas, ingesting their composite FX.
Escaped ovules howl quietly in the mountains just at the thought that you could be
an invisible tumbler of vodka on the cuff of an anonymous bar.
I stopped using Green from the tube preferring to mix mine from blood,
snails and peacock tongues, it was harder to predict the outcome of those hues,
to fetch sweat and clean dirt from less seen mountainsides.
Your jaguar song-bones don't crackle on the fallen bark;
so I don't hear the sea getting too loud again now that I've forgotten
it existed because when I opened the door it was right there,
replete and urgent, and I tore into a million restraining thoughts. 10/30/2006 Posted on 10/30/2006
Copyright © 2024 Shirin Swift
| Member Comments on this Poem |
| Posted by Kathleen Wilson on 11/11/06 at 04:43 PM Again, a powerful spash of color and sound, the poem reads itself, sings itself, self-referentially, a rush of deep voice, like opening that door to the sea. What a strong and precise surreal stream of associations. |
|
