Simmering beans in a pot
do the slow boil shuffle.
The kitchen is so quiet
you can hear the biscuits grow.
Become the hum
of the basement furnace
in the warped tile
under your feet.
Stop running.
Textual accompaniment to the ringing in my ears. Shared for no one but spoken into the world before it dries up and dances madly in the wind.
2 comments:
It's necessary to stop running to hear the boil shuffle.
I liked this poem.
And proper!
Post a Comment