Clotheshorses scuttle in the rain
a dripful soul of mourning
when even dreamy poet’s eye
can’t race the answers in the fog.
The moaning switch of meaning
is turned off. Over.
We scatter wit across parched landscape
manhandle fears into submission
and joke that pastiche amours
await behind the barbed wire.
No idea what any of that means – this is purely automatic writing when I woke up from a dream (which I can’t remember) one morning. This is my sad attempt to write and to contribute to dVerse Poets‘ Open Link Night during a week of unsatisfying work and mighty little inspiration.