Hands

There was a road that leads him to go to find
a certain time where he sits.

Smokes quietly in the evening by the four legged
table wagging its (well why not) tail, friendly
chap.

Hears footsteps, looks to find his own feet gone.

The road absorbs everything with rumors of sleep.

And then he looked for himself and even he was gone.

Looked for the road and even that . . .

by Russell Edson

Comments (2)

This poet is hands down the most unique one I have read on this site.... he has a certain allure... like to see what he will write next...
even that.. what? disintegrated? ? sexi writing. Absorbing, melting. glossy, cool, and gripping. like a firm [hand]shake. best care, sjg