Kyle Harbinger

Ode To The Greats

Yellow apple,
we met for supper in your
flat bottomed boat.
we are not here; you are beginning
my hand is sticky with sugar
a breathy click- low volumed
height of trees
willows are not real trees
the natural world spins us in green
the look of stewed water
glaring in convex contemplation
plums hit the ground
the brain behind
smiles, smiles, - similes
of oxygenation
he will never reach her
to ash,
to mount smoke of a soul
it is two
in the morning
It cannot come to any such end
the buses moving along
to the end of the line
time past.
rushing into fill the
unthinkable well
when the moon rises above the hill
baskets, birds, beetles, spools
a million boats
the sprinkling can
on the dank wet streets
that they once were
where logic can carry you to hell
out of many colors
increases with winter weight
the dissolving string
through needles:
un deterred by erroneous
big mountain thunder
fall on shy trees
blue trees vanish
with neglecting to
tell us
no remorse
the moon is an alien rock
among purples
fog grays the skyline
one dreams of a law and vines
I go without a clock
the shift
the well I threw sand into
a rejected man is walking
and near white trees
and we blew the joint
night and day
her son destroyed her paintings
like a needle to a magnet
do not fear your death
I followed the string in the dark
a black pool full of black water
sweet inside world
river stones
stars you are mine
burned at the touch of the earth
I’ve never felt.

Poem Submitted: Saturday, April 26, 2008

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