Poems, 1991 [Next]

Sand (or I'm Happy Because This Makes No Sense)

 Gathering in your eyes is a gush of lush
Upon a grassy mountain that heaves curled lips onto your face.
 Then your brow will slide up a bit
While cracking a joke about a sheath in between the hourglass,
 Just sip your tea and roll down the hill
 Whispering a solid smile buried beneath
 Old waves of grating achings.

There is no end to the cleansing turning of days,
 Thought of as one grain of sand,
 Light and pacifically timeless,
 Once swirling next to a blue whale,
 Ending and staying on the mind
 of an altered pine tree,
 Staring at you right now,
Without the pretension of its own words,

T. J. M. [1991]

Copyright © 1998 Tobin Jon Manley. All rights reserved.