Your hair twists against
the milky sun of a high window
like the newborn snakes
of a wild eyed farmer.
or this is how it seems
to me, one who can never
move from the pulpit
can never be fresh enough
to rise and catch you
your face moves in
wrinkled transits of shadow
each time you lean closer
the shade thickens
and I know what you’re thinking
Comments
Pata
your first line is a bit confusing " your hair twists against' the milky sun of a high window ( this could be used as one line)
perhaps it is your phrasing that makes it such
the rest of the poem can stand as it is
I agree that it's confusing,
I agree that it's confusing, but then pataphysique is always that way. Enjoyed, none the less. Makes one go into a reverie.