Prompt: an origins poem.
My inspiration: my first T-ball practice
Cocoons, T-Ball, March spring
Weeds rise out of the skull of a batting helmet,
and the old farmer agrees again to take the mound
of his rusty tractor to sweep the field of purple clover.
Above the gummed and besticked benches
wasps crawl and neck, their eyes as slick
as new baseball bats, their wings as hairy
as a scrape. The cocoon rots off dusty wings
in the hollow reaches of the stands
that bow like a broken bough, that both beam
and hoard darkness, damp, and darkness.
note: I got tired at the end...it was freaking 10 pmish and Lost was on...
I do like the gothy rotting vibe...
My inspiration: my first T-ball practice
Cocoons, T-Ball, March spring
Weeds rise out of the skull of a batting helmet,
and the old farmer agrees again to take the mound
of his rusty tractor to sweep the field of purple clover.
Above the gummed and besticked benches
wasps crawl and neck, their eyes as slick
as new baseball bats, their wings as hairy
as a scrape. The cocoon rots off dusty wings
in the hollow reaches of the stands
that bow like a broken bough, that both beam
and hoard darkness, damp, and darkness.
note: I got tired at the end...it was freaking 10 pmish and Lost was on...
I do like the gothy rotting vibe...
Comments