Sense is a poem with 22 ilkes
ruins a carp of bothersome hand
bells or sanded to round stitch a whole
fundy sometimes that old mustard feeling
under jive turkeys out on godless high thanks
giving orations of more brave than new
to gallows fish gone wrest my fair lad
’Tis a she! could have danced starry the night
but for the someone step on her feets
too big and nov 15 flooding the dark
ling plane of where we can fly through the blue
new to prevail an orangutan swell
against a green whisper utt’ring screech
It’s the lein en’ kugel have a cold one!
Poetry
Winter/Spring
2012
