Brash howls the nighthawk

Brash howls the nighthawk. Thin branches bend in a penitent way. Night sets in an unforgiving fashion. Fall asleep at the wheel while indigo visions tunnel me blind. We are never far from our true nature despite evidence to the contrary. Drama manuals are drawn up on crisp white linen sheets. Bedstead rules break while wearing maroon fingernail polish. Your sex is distracting me from ending things between us. Pylon pieces smash upon the hearthstone. If you happen to pass my life on the street, grab her and drag her home. I believe in terrible ghosts from strange places and the paper monsters that dangle from string. Your frailty skim my hands and I believe in my foolishness to make you burst into laughter. If you look out the window, a hovel burns down the stretch with licking flames. Your departure has left careless marks against my questions. Snail-slouching murmurs gather where raindrops have pooled. A metallic taste lingers on the tongue when there is talk of kinship. Thoughts hunker down; silence floats freely along an undercurrent.

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My thoughts:
One of the things I've been contemplating is the fine line between short versus long poems. This piece is an experiment of taking lines from shorter pieces and mixing them up together. Lewis gave me some decent feedback about the prose poems I submitted and I find the way these lines mash-up against each other working in a way I hadn't thought before. So if you recognize lines from earlier drafts you know why. Poets recycle, recycle, recycle to mine those gems.

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