Foreign light marbles her brown stare
In stumble-upon fashion I cluster my fingers
and run them
un-confounded moles tunneling through the mass
her clumped hair
Foreign to mass, shifted cobs and webs locking
where there are dark crops, their curious
same-style seams, coded at every level
and farm fashion
mollifies simple hares in finger form thumping
the coarse ground by her seat on the
crop circle's curve
Shadeways slip down corn alleys and in their
recesses a cat eye cuts the darkness with a
glint - ominous, as her favored mouse glances,
doubts, and is devoured
1 comment:
i like the last stanza.. the others are too grounded in reality, and you aren't used to writing about real things yet, not in a descriptive way. it combines 'normal' poetic description with your abstract style and doesn't work smoothly.. yet. more practice!
smh
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