Self portrait

How strange to find myself
in a tide of warmed over tea.
How strange to part my lips
and say not a thing

I’m looking for an accent
a music between notes
a nylon string
a knotted rope

Where everything comes to smoke
the bus and hoarse engine
cigarettes pinched in fingers
orange embers of

The sun in every image—
and become a work of art.

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *

*

You may use these HTML tags and attributes: <a href="" title=""> <abbr title=""> <acronym title=""> <b> <blockquote cite=""> <cite> <code> <del datetime=""> <em> <i> <q cite=""> <strike> <strong>