Back to Poetry
The Impossible Machine
Swing
Under the preponderant clouds
wishing mist on the outskirts of cities
The crowd roves and raves
Speaking with the hearts of dead men


Wheezy with their instruments,
the black satin leaves them standing on
their own
besmirched with a sticky forgetfulness
wondering how it turned.



And, in another room
The men awake, as though just
remembering
A long voyage to the center of a thin
rope
Somewhere in the clouds
BACK TO POETRY MAIN
by Eucaleh Terrapin