Friday, June 17, 2005

For Andy

In the dream
fish fly like chips of wood to the axe,
bark dark warnings on the edge of tidal pools.
Maine looms a granite sculpture,
seated with scarred evergreens, watercolors
in a tin box dashed against the imagination.
Spit upon, immersed in seawater
passion crashes against the immovable,
the ultimate end.

4 comments:

21k said...

every time I see fish....chips I get hungry.

damn, that's a lame remark, but there it is.

do chips fly to the axe or from it?

It does sound like a curious dream though.

I mean this in a friendly way.

thanks

deirdre

anders said...

who is andy? i want to know who andy is. Not Andy Warhol -- who is the "andy"? tell.

gingerivers said...

Andrew Wyeth.

By the way, aren't you from Salisbury? Do you know John Wear?

gingerivers said...

You are funny, Deirdre! A sense of humor is a good thing.