Words clunk inside dry chunks of uninspired stones tonight.
No moonlight gleams warm image streams or blue green
dream onto my blocked and barren thoughts.
I sit displaced with feet that chafe and burn
on a floor of silent scorn
as fingers tap these rocks for what it’s worth,
or not, they’re so far away from thee
at this dead-end cul-de-sac, this unfertile geology.
....Still, a train’s plangent whistle sings low and long
in smokey rain,
(can you hear it softly whimper a sculpted anomie?)
as it lulls our Friday townsfolk, one of whom is me,
unto their whispered sleep.
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