Distance throws points pointing to the Subject [of Yellow Feathers].

Lost in the sun—a rogue magician feeds finches from a torn sleeve.

This is where the owl lives at night with baby bats after the crickets and tree frogs’ duet plummets.

In the woods, there are no hands to flutter moonbeams.

In summer sunlight, trees arching under cyan blue are liquid stained-glass.

During late-afternoon brutal heat, the weeping willows drink the pond’s moss surface.

Just out of school for summer, impatient children try to catch tadpoles in butterfly nets.

Camouflaged in the oak’s wishbone trunk, the egret waits for the fish that are thirsty for air to catch the exterior like words.

Scientists claim that without a human cerebral cortex, fish can’t cry, but poets knows that their tears fill the oceans.

Yellow snapdragons are wilting in the garden because we’ve forgotten.

Buddha’s terracotta bowed chin and left ear are eternally injured by winter because we can’t find the proper glue. 

The Knight’s Suitcase of Watches drowns his Doppelganger backwards.

Many times the dying want to let go.

If the debacle had been planned properly, we could still do lunch.

There should be a word for someone who blows up consecutive bridges with one damp match.

Fire can be satisfying like a fact.

When you’re looking in the wrong places, it’s time to stop looking.

Compulsive white lying can alleviate boredom [not to mention major hassles], preempt further questioning, and hone the art of fabrication.   

The recently-widowed old man counts his money in the freezer.

Someone who might be me watches him through binoculars.

This time, it’s best for all subjected parties to become fluent in silence.

No one else needs to review your emotional scorecard.

No one fathoms the song I bleed when I relinquish windows.

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  1. Gordon Hilgers says:

    Really nice as usual!

    • Krysia Jopek says:

      thank you so much, Gordon! I’m particularly fond of this one but maybe it’s just like having a new dress! I do think this will stay a favorite one, but time will tell. Thanks for reading me.

  2. Dom Plaideho says:

    Ain’t it just like the night
    To play tricks when you’re trying to be so quiet?
    We’re sit here stranded
    Though we’re all doing our best to deny it
    And Louise holds a handful of rain
    Tempting you to defy it
    Lights flicker from the opposite loft
    In this room, the heat pipes just cough
    The country music station plays soft
    But there’s nothing, really nothing to turn off
    Just Louise and her lover, so entwined
    And these visions of Johanna
    That conquer my mind
    In the empty lot where the ladies play
    Blind man’s bluff with the key chain
    And the all-night girls
    They whisper of escapades out on the D Train
    We can hear the night-watch man click his flashlight
    Ask himself if it’s him or them that’s insane
    Louise, she’s alright, she’s just near
    She’s delicate and seems like the mirror
    But she just makes it all to concise and too clear
    That Johanna’s not here
    The ghost of electricity howls in the bones of her face
    Where these visions of Johanna
    Have now taken my place
    Now, little boy lost
    He takes himself so seriously
    He brags of his misery
    He likes to live dangerously
    And when bringing her name up
    He speaks of a farewell kiss to me
    He’s sure got a lot of gall
    To be so useless and all
    Muttering small talk at the wall
    While I’m in the hall
    Oh, how can I explain it’s so hard to get on?
    And these visions of Johanna
    They’ve kept me up past the dawn
    Inside the museums
    Infinity goes up on trial
    Voices echo, “This is what
    Salvation must be like after a while”
    But Mona Lisa must have had the highway blues
    You can tell by the way she smiles
    See the primitive wallflower freeze
    When the jelly-faced women all sneeze
    Hear the one with the mustache say
    “Jeez, I can’t find my knees”
    Both jewels and binoculars hang from the head of the mule
    But these visions of Johanna
    They make it all seem so cruel
    The peddler now speaks
    To the countess who’s pretending to care for him
    Saying, “Name me someone that’s not a parasite
    And I’ll go out and say a prayer for him”
    But like Louise always says
    “You can’t look at much, can you man?”
    As she herself prepares for him
    And Madonna, she still has not showed
    We see this empty cage now corrode
    Where her cape of the stage once had flowed
    The fiddler, he now steps to the road
    He writes, “Everything’s been returned which was owed”
    On the back of the fish truck that loads
    While my conscience explodes
    The harmonicas play the skeleton keys and the rain
    And these visions of Johanna
    Are now all that remain
    Songwriters: Bob Dylan, Dylan Bob
    For non-commercial use only.

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