My window-floodgates admit
this spring night's
tide of sound:
a jet climbing, passing cars
train's deep rumble and whistle
behind it all, the indistinct
dull roar of the distant freeway
crowd-cheer of rubber
on roadway
that continuous flow
we're a restless beast
that won't bed down for the night
no sunless slowing
closing of our petals
only endless movement
arrival forever deferred
Comments
Clayton Medeiros
April 18, 2012
Permalink
I like the movement across
I like the movement across all of the poems conceit, movement that is continuous without end.