Saturday, November 12, 2011


An old wooden organ cranks
Up like a biplane ready for
Take off & not enough run
Way a bit asthmatic yet part
Of its rusticity classically
Transpired like Bach on acid
& what is this joy of man’s
Desiring with notes like bugs
Under a microscope that no
Longer squirm aimlessly they
Are small & fit into almost any
Thing a pocket a plastic bag
A bottle found in an alleyway
Only awaiting a small taste
Of redemption or at least
An audience


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