Monday, June 28, 2010

poem || Jeff Harrison

Remote Gold

herself? her eyes go soft when lit on serpents
she cries when her skin turns color in different rooms
each tear like a thousand drunks
(sunflowers not wine changed their head)
I rule between these lightning-strikes still
rolling hands broke the earth from beneath me
and here I am, piggy-backing the fireworks,
a tangy flight flavored with remote gold

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