44 Barber Street, Windsor | Miguel Escobar

restricted airspace

at your beck and call

 

the stress of racism —

 

its entry

into the lexicon

 

— with us

waiting out of breath for

every new edition

 

and

guitar electric twang

 

— hymn

of liturgical pulp fiction

whines

where is

commonwealth on a map

 

you might look at

44 Barber Street, Windsor

for

revolving doors

 

in same sense as

farewell being waved

to arms —

in the act of bidding goodbye

to words

now

 

being bid

stand up for

the enshrined piece of music

— or relive

separation anxiety

in a kind of

life behind bars —

 

at the bible museum

— a use of the near-death experience

as so much more than just

an excuse

for slacking

 

an about face

— like most normal people

 

then wither

from heights — feeling slain

 

Provence or its corollary all a mood

— toss and turn

it turns out for decades

 

still

to be found here

happy to have known Tolstoy

 

I can rest now

knowing

we never need think

of ourselves

as

being apart
There are currently no comments.

Your words are welcome…