The Spring Of '61

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You will find him now
walking at nightfall
in his minstrel’s coat
dragging his chains not
stopping for water
nor to look upon the moon
dogging his footsteps
cloaking his pale heart

He said nothing when
he looked at you
draped like a sleeping kitten
across his arm
legs outstretched
mouth twitching

You may follow his footsteps
into the swamp but then
they disappear and
you are surrounded
by night’s noises and you feel
blindly for his soft touch not
of the sun’s bitter gaze, not
of the moon’s cold haze
but of your childhood

splashed on the rocks of the river country
in the spring of ‘61

--30—

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2 Comments
jthserrajthserraalmost 20 years ago
An interesting search

for something just beyond reach. Again I found your line breaks intriguing... often suspensful, heightening my anticipation as I read. This poem was haunting... very good.

jim : )

jthserrajthserraalmost 20 years ago
An interesting search

for something just beyond reach. Again I found your line breaks intriguing... often suspensful, heightening my anticipation as I read. This poem was haunting... very good.

jim : )

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