Rusting Off the Wind.

The marrows of teeth;
See them smile, see them smile,
Impression, lipless patches percolating
Footfall in the mist, there was no trace.
All worthwhile, and I durst to look down.
Oh, what a miff, hurdling outside,
Soon I am invited—take it with care or not,
I was never one for disclosure,
But why did the moment stretch, yawn,
And cave off throughout the breed of day? Cruelly, I wandered,
As I poured a pint of sweat, reaching a gulf.
Yes, you’re quite quaint (as I pour some more sweat),
But, you talk when it’s not worth it.
Hear the preamble, the custody of a minute,
I only wish I could have said what I thought.
The puncture, the puncture, don’t think of such,
As expectation can be amiss.
See them talk, see them laugh—
About the recherché, the weather,
Their complaints, and desires,
And, soon enough, themselves,
Ready, ready, to startle themselves
Bent over laughing, akin to the ridges of the roof,
Rusting off the wind; I’m called again,
And I don’t think much of it.
I walked around to the back,
Down the stiff and narrow hallway,
Immersed with generation’s lure,
Enwrapped with the first entry upon the wall;
Puff that wry semblance, try not to look sequestered
In the middle of the columns and processions;
Suspend disbelief, slung from your face.
Thus, the talk is misread, and therefore a mistake.
Put on that measly chuckle; pat your pant leg, drag your feet
To the maw of the foyer, the ground tapering, grinning,
And walk aimlessly.
Silence is a mistress,
Is it not?
Keep that straight line, walking aimlessly,
Talking to myself internally, talking briefly,
I mutter to my companion, the floor;
The carpet piled on, adding remnants of dirt on the ashen floor,
Drained from the prime room we were in.
See them smile, see them smile;
Impression, lipless patches percolating
Footfall in the mist, there was no trace.
All worthwhile, and I durst to look down.
See them talk, see them laugh—
About the recherché, the weather,
Their complaints, and desires,
And, soon enough, themselves,
Ready, ready, to startle themselves
Bent over laughing, akin to the ridges of the roof,
Rusting off the wind; I’m called again,
And I don’t think much of it.

© 2019 lucysworks.com All Rights Reserved.



Categories: Poetry

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1 reply

  1. When I read your poems Lucy, I feel they come from a place of magic! The inventiveness, the originality and the way they get into you is almost unbelievable! A sense of open mouthed wonder is what I feel! Keep writing!

    Like

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