this is my lot
we each have our own lota lot is a sheaf of wheat
from our father’s fielda lot is a grain of wheat
from our mother’s handa lot is a stem of wheat
shaped like a keya key to a room
a skeleton keywe each have our own room
sometimes a corner of my roomis a corner of your room
sometimes it isn’tsome rooms are small & dank
some are bright wheat fieldswith broad horizons and locusts
sleeping in the soilthe wife of lot
looked back & nowseasons all our
solitary suppers
« Felineous Lassitude | Main | Blogger Block »
21 August 2005
lots
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Wow. This is very good. I'm away to think about this one.
Posted by: David Bridger | 21 August 2005 at 05:24 PM
Clever!
and, quite thought provoking!
Posted by: Ken | 22 August 2005 at 12:35 PM
How did I miss this? I especially like the last three stanzas, but the whole thing is great & bears multiple re-readings.
Posted by: Dave | 01 September 2005 at 07:22 PM