11-23-2022, 01:47 AM
Updated Title: At the Edges
At the edges, fabric frays. And men with it.
Waves break strangely here on the northern coast.
Where rivulets of water wander through sage grass;
loose threads at the end of this American cloth.
Along the 101, two men cook in a bus without tires.
Several birch trees huddle together above a group of tents.
Foliage stripped.
Another day ends with no further to go.
So the men watch the waves from just beyond the spray.
A crow’s skeleton rests on a small island of rock. Wings outstretched.
Ushering in a night of sand covered tent floors
and damp sleeping bags.
Loose threads at the end of this tapestry
woven of lives lived
at the edges
where the fabric frays.
At the edges, fabric frays. And men with it.
Waves break strangely here on the northern coast.
Where rivulets of water wander through sage grass;
loose threads at the end of this American cloth.
Along the 101, two men cook in a bus without tires.
Several birch trees huddle together above a group of tents.
Foliage stripped.
Another day ends with no further to go.
So the men watch the waves from just beyond the spray.
A crow’s skeleton rests on a small island of rock. Wings outstretched.
Ushering in a night of sand covered tent floors
and damp sleeping bags.
Loose threads at the end of this tapestry
woven of lives lived
at the edges
where the fabric frays.
"What I want in poetry is a kind of abstract photography of the nerves, but what I like in photography is the poetry of literal pictures of the neighborhood." -John Koethe