Surreal poem today.
Yes, I know it's late, I can explain.
I was on a bus tour of the Bronx.
A bus tour of the Bronx led by Claudia Rankine.
That was a poem.
There is a road that goes over a bridge - it begins
on your shoulder - wonds among the dusty shoals of your collar
The dirt kicked up by travellers moves behind your ears
they will come out from under the lobes and cross
It is a stone-arched one-lane townie sort of bridge
The river is wider going back - it hovers
oddly placed onthe horizon
Your hair waves and rolls like foam and treats
your neck like boulders
Wide but soft spoken this river
Somewhere high up a forest begins and brushed
the sky and everything recedes into cream
All of this happens while you sit still watching a man
with a paint brush doing your face on a canvas
He's put a mirror on the back to keep you entertained
You make faces at yourself and watch pilgrims fall from your ears