spring's summit

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This morning it wasn’t meaning to rain. I didn’t even owe
Now a story not worth telling. compulsive from a skittish memory who
 
I met a blues player. washed up cup
Put away til vodka
 
You poems and poets rupture my trunk in graft. the anti pain killer
Not gaugeably inflicted. nosing into the corners of eyes
 
Unprotected stream beds suffer the open sky. holed up in any-where’s silence
Trotting behind its endless stone wall. if turning to write appeared
 
Laugh may have history but not definition. a crash of joy of secret slaughter



                                         Joanne Hart









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