November 12, 2014 § Leave a comment

your glass of
Liebfraumilch shakes
a Djembe speaks
from somewhere
on the beach and
on you
every eye

waiting for you
to cut through ice
of withering unknowing
and, for clarity, to
expound on that which
has left you
and clenched in
this hour

for all who are
united with
the cloaked and
the fiendish,

said to be found
among the rocks

(c) 2014 Fred Whitehead


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