August 2012 – Page 16

O hear! it is Aleppo overhead – ‘the big C shining water’, & clearly, ‘that’s my shoulder bag’

from mercados on a bridge from the rolls of the fewest in the pools of the bluest

‘thru the hooves & dune abit, batter’d, but the handle, grip & sandals fit the shiftin’ o’er the traction, by the moon, I’ll wait

the boats were flotsam the breakers’ captizin’, jotsum & zinc, so, how’s the washun’

sure the buoyed & flooded mingle fore a stranger land than that, not knowin’ wherein go, I’d chew on many roots and things, cap-side & middle