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.
3 comments:
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
Andrew Wyeth.
By the way, aren't you from Salisbury? Do you know John Wear?
You are funny, Deirdre! A sense of humor is a good thing.
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