None the wiser, trampolined pigs
disgorge the sty, and all the rocky run steam,
swirled in basins, churned in the mud of the Missouri or
misery or the confluence of all them slumtacks
dulled in a stream – up there – not North –
not skybound like frogspring – but face first
in sweltered weltered fate. We stay up late
for our darlings, those codified blips too plump
for an eye, too hot for a hand, too far, too far
for a sad sack burlap rig, trampolined
for some lung beyond its grip — its trip —
far far and through its fingers slipped.
Image: Jason Blackeye on Unsplash
Sweet and Bitter Greens 
Beautiful ❣️
Thanks, WH.
D
excellent
Thank you. I appreciate the read. D
Beautiful poem Devon. I especially loved “We stay up late
for our darlings, those codified blips too plump”. I realize what amazes me about your poetry is that even though you have a very distinct style, every time I read a poem of yours it’s completely 100% new, evey piece has its own thing going on! I admire that!
Mae
Thanks Mae. I think it important for development to not rely on a single style or form.
D
It is indeed! Great work again!
M.