Orchestral Brass
It's hollow and long
and burnished in the late sun
of oratory.
I no longer can
purse my chapped lips despite hope
and our sharper skills
so I leave quartets
to others still able as
I once certainly
was. All is holy.
You asked and I so assert
as if that mattered,
not that it still does.
August 10, 2014 8:20 PM
This poem spins off of work by Iren Toh of Singapore. Find her poem on her blog, Orange Is A Fruit
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The chicken crossed the road. That's poultry in motion.