And the wide arrowhead the road itself
Not daring to oppose
Swaying in unison beneath the snow,
Is dumb; he is the mute white stony shape
Floating on the sky.
Beneath a pile of corpses, lying massed
I’ve drifted somewhat from the distant heart
To pick up even the quickening of wind
Glimmering of light:
Appear to lift up from the lake;
grow hot in the parking lot, though they’re
Toward the still dab of white that oscillates
the foul pole relaxes. She’s raged all afternoon
Before those virile women!
“The foul pole relaxes?” That’s ironic coming from a Viagra spam, don’t you think?
-Dave
