tom taylor

weather report

on the best of days it was the worst of times again
marked and said there ere eye’s not distant locks
the moon her splendor new mown half circle sky
small birds begin to be seen along the coast today

the rope is spent not stuttered in these nostrils of
light and time recoil and spin the last of the race
coming in last not so far behind the others on clock
the evolutionary spin has grown another heady act

form the new day’s recall for you to your mother
at the bottom of the bay in sandy retreat dark
and spoiled by the rheum and stain of death’s
own song toiling on your lips like spittle’s dew