Ohio is warm and sick with winds.
Trains moan through winter evening dark,
memorializing distance. Explosions poppy,
woven from pixels from an abandoned game
in the woods; Alex found an arm there,
lying on the grass. It was grasping coughs.
This is what it means to be precious.
The War rouged over, grumpy, wearing your
sweater, won't cool if you blow on it.
We grew up in imagined engines, in graveyards
lying face-down among a pool of rhododendron.
We made honey. And all our lower levels flood.
Lewis LaCook, Senior Engineer
Abstract Outlooks Media
http://www.abstractoutlooks.com
Abstract Outlooks Media - Premium Web Hosting, Development, and Art Photography
http://www.lewislacook.org
lewislacook.org - New Media Poetry and Poetics
http://www.xanaxpop.org
Xanax Pop - the poetry of Lewis LaCook
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Ohio is warm and sick with winds - Xanax Pop - The Poetry of Lewis LaCook
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