|
Text version below
Thoughts on the Bus After Losing
Your Car Keys in the Graveyard
Drunken sun, fallen face forward,
sleeps between rocks and headstones,
and the moon, clumsy trickster,
is tangled in monkey trees arms.
The bread you broke, devoured
by assailing ravens, leaves no trail,
so you glance through the uneven gates,
reach deep into pockets once more.
Ronda Broatch
| 
