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16 February 2011

Rush




as we oscillate
towards
the exit
newspapers peek
from
pockets
fingers
nimbly
stroke phones
each slack-jawed
vowel
met
with a
sharp
twist
of accent
languages
mix
whiskey licked lips
permeate
the air
a momentary
frenzy
as we
slow
to a
halt
chins
on backs
shoulder
to
strangers
shoulder
every
steel trimmed
step
punched
with the
fists
of our
feet

listens

to
our
lithe
rush
home

1 comment:

Ghostdog said...

As a flowing tape of words wrapped around ones eyes this poem dictates vision. Flash backing imagery , even smell. I like poetry and poets who manage to re - create the 6 senses in their work.
You are one of them