Wednesday, August 31, 2011

The poet's net

Colors, appealing
though they may be,
cannot disguise
true purpose here:
to trap the fluid silver flash,
remove it from
the liquid sky
through which it swims;
to stop the life
that pulses through the gills;
to turn those living embers
into ash, dissect, de-bone,
and serve them on a plate
to tempt a dwindling appetite,
or tease a jaded palate
with yet another taste
of possibility.

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