You can see it,
but the capucinno spilled, tumbling in my direction, as a lost lamb, splintering wood, we all can see - but not he. Glancing, a spy novel bleats blood, as we all know that summer blends blanks, for guns not aimed, nor taken in stead. Those magazines are not really mine, they just sprang into action, my hand, yours eyes peeled for flesh that stares. Nonchalance travels so fast it dovetails, loitering in feathers, still the way that they keep fresh, toward that man acting. The pair, mother, daughter - embarassed but acknowledging gravity, the situation calls for style, governance, correction - freedom to become lax. Now it isn't really looking at me. But my mind bends in that gravel pit, furrows of dirt upturned, for manure that clarifies my brain on trash. © 2013 Larry Ingram
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Welcome to the poetry web site of Larry Ingram. Larry is a poet, writer and observer of our culture. Categories
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December 2018
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