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Poems Taylor Graham |
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Idea It's dark-thirty in the morning, you're sitting on the porch wide to the night wind sipping hot coffee listening. It isn't thunder- weather, not quite, but upcanyon, there's a black rush like runoff, caffeine in the veins. All week you've been flat on the couch, not caring one way or |
the other. Now something you can't wrap a name around. Maybe the Old Trickster's got you sharp and wild. You know how dangerous thoughts can be. The mind in the flesh of man both meat and carnivore. This Idea has claws  |
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