|Posted by mccoyfamily on January 12, 2013 at 9:10 AM||comments (0)|
My Watch Is Always Wrong
My watch is always wrong. It ticks, it tocks, And skips along The sands of time While I behind, Moaning, Am forced to follow.
from the "The Fear Years"
|Posted by mccoyfamily on January 12, 2013 at 9:05 AM||comments (0)|
Air trembles like a bow on a string Still lighter the beater brakes
Its tremolo over the rose bush Its timbre breaks into fragments
The chords of our voices As we across the table
The clatter of dishes Falls unheard against our window
The beater does not care for us We are slow as snails to him
As he alarms the blossoms With his gentle probing
There is life inside the glass There is life outside the glass
For my part, I would prefer To be a beater of the morning air.