Eyes Red Galoshes

To the north,

isolation escaping over ice.

I was born of the crowd

to the crowd,

my mouth pasted on me closed.

I whip my back with feathers,

wear sackcloth of spun gold.

As the curve of collective consciousness

moves us closer and closer

to opposite edges.

The secret catapult

and the old rope swing

evade notice.

Except to me,

my eyes red galoshes in a

congregation of black.

Did I ever loan him a life vest

or sell him food?

We live our lives in a

stranger’s life.

He ran alongside the

multitudes until he

absorbed them.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.