tom taylor

locus solus

sticks tied together with string and old rags future
housing from remnants of ideas long forgotten in
the rush into the tomorrow of now hearing silence
in the evening tidal floats and glimmers of remains

where looms the hour unintended quickness to their
step and dance in the hoax of centuries left unknown
in their own repast and centers like something newer
yet unlearned as if the wheel had not occurred at all

still we patch up and sing off key into the new air which
is pitchy and yellow and where dogcarts punch out of
the dark morning air in the stillness which follows from
disdain and a lack of caution not for envy or copy or else