apologies to Homer
rosy fingered dawn
who awoke with a start
to see a world upside down
upstairs wind blew the curtains
in awesome fluid patterns you’d
have to imagine millions of, they flapped
so mercilessly, like a slap to the face of Job.
Poems
Order should be imposed on my poems, but isn't likely to be until I turn to carpentry, or painting, to carry me through the day. The display here is latest first.