Tilting by John Holland

In the tiny

darkling hours

the poet showers in meteor storms

the poet showers

in meteor storms.

Eats fireflies.

Farts sparks.

Frets about the rising dark.

When daylight comes

with pastel hues 

of gentle yellows, pinks and blues.

He mounts Ego.

That winged ass.

Then rides out bravely

to test his fate.

Out where the fearsome 

word mills wait.

reprinted from collection “Under the Dog Star” with permission by the author.

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