Who put a magnet in the loin…

This should raise some discussion.

Who put a magnet in the loin
to watch it pulled clean through a mortared wall?

The a cappella traffic gives mice
& birds migraines— make(s) food a weapon!

Younger poets are charmed by polysyllables
: they’ve ample time to waste

—am i still young or have i always been
this old? My allotted time

has never felt that short | so much spare
then what to do with it all?

As poets grow grey & dewlaps skip
the floor they switch from scudding words

to steady | stomping monosyllables |
to keep the time they have from pecking bone.

The sun has left off land | 2 cats melt
into rock & shadow | stalking ducks

with water at their back | the cats
know better than to lunge the arc of dusk.

4 thoughts on “Who put a magnet in the loin…

  1. Daniel, sorry if this is a repeat comment, either I goofed or it went into spam. I love the clear images au naturel, and although I admit I don’t like actual thinking, it’s a glorious poem. The last few pairs are stand-outs for me and I think time always pecks the bone, you’ve reached the bone with this piece. 😃

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