The Morning Shape Poem by Patrick Keenan
The Morning Shape
These are not the family men
Taken to thinking of when
Nah, these guys are wound up
from beginning to end of now
No faint aroma of others
drift from their open coats
that gather in the wind
About as much as they can hold
A few are still drunk
and most will always be still crazy
That honed edge of one
has put a sharp crease
on the old familiar pair
of heart and mind
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
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5/17/2024 4:50:51 AM # 1.0.0.1119
