turned to
lock
a door
a glimpse, or
glance ?
nasturtiums
bobbing
one enlongate
shape upon the walk
still ::
blue air
brown
flesh again
the sun
we
wait
paired watchers
noon's
torpid glare
breath's
forgotten
circumstance
--
Marthe Reed
Director of Creative Writing
Assistant Professor
English Department
UL Lafayette
337-482-5503
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http://www.ucs.louisiana.edu/~mxr5675/home.html
http://nous-zot.blogspot.com/
http://www.blackradishbooks.org/Reed.html
_____________________________________
The biplane shuttles through the telegraph wires.
The fountain sings the same old song.
At the cab-drivers' bar, the drinks are orange,
but the eyes of the engine drivers are white.
The lady has lost her smile in the woods.
--Philippe Soupault
