Poetic fragments of Ross MacDonald
#1
A Rolls with a doll at the wheel 
went by us like a gust of wind, 
and I felt unreal.

The light blue haze in the lower canyon 
was like a thin smoke 
from slowly burning money.

A smile passed over her face
like sunlight on a plowed field.

She moved her hands in front of her face
like the names were insects.

The operator was a frozen virgin
who dreamed of men at night
and hated them in the daytime.
Her tone clicked like pennies
her eyes were small and shiny
like dimes.

It was like the inside of a sick brain 
with no eyes to see out of
nothing to look at 
but the upside-down reflection of itself.

The traffic on the boulevard
was a kaleidoscope being shaken.
"Poetry is the rhythmic, inevitably narrative, movement from an overclothed blindness to a naked vision."  Dylan Thomas
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