But That's Not It On A Hartford Train
Riding backwards
each brick is
surprise peripheral.
Gaze shapes itself
solidly
a moment then to movement
succumbs.
Again.
And I am dumb.
Strike no pose
that a poem
could love
much less linger
petulant in a
tinted window.
A brick sticks
in the throat.
No.
An eye.
No.
It is red.
It is dead
weight leaving
residue in
a palm
or place it
sighing to my
chest still
overcome by
the last
brick, and
the other
one
and so on,
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poem by Warren Falcon
Added by Poetry Lover
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