tom taylor - at luck

at luck

less formal designations recall doubt
from its regional discord on the plane
of visualization. you call the air aloud
in short barks and grunts called speech

yet the vision protrudes, comes through
the sign of the times, the finder’s heir
and plenty in the moon tonight, sound
and rhythm allow you your inebriation

and hold out promise for tomorrow, for
yellow light on the dark hour, for new
rooms filled with plenty and fervor, just
around the bend and bending free again