by Ryan Nardi

Makes accelerated thumping,
the dressed-up honey-sunbeam
takes the rest of days and lays
it headlong against my carapace.

We slow down here;
we bend our ears
toward the ground
and listen loud.

There are no real memories
in the foam, but just above it
hover fragrant movies
of two cotton swathed magnets.

We know out loud here;
we are aware of a truth
that does not need physics
to prove what it is.


Posted on 06/05/2008
Copyright © 2023 Ryan Nardi

Member Comments on this Poem
Posted by Quentin S Clingerman on 06/07/08 at 12:59 PM

What tale hath the sleeper? Is it one of rarest dreams? Or a gem so fine but unnoticed? What loud truth? What mystery? When will the sleeprs awaken?

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