Beneath it only sky

A woolly dressed man hoes in a sugar-field
peddles soil to the prostitute’s shawl,
in her room a photo of an empty cage—he
reclines into just-opened lips. …an old
man sleeps with his wife in dead city lights,
a blind-peddler sweats in the dark
jingles the loose change, wears a white feather
 
A bird from an iron-cage flying, the sun it sees
yet the sun it does not feel; the grass
grows wherever it grows, the sea travels the
whaleboat road. …calloused hands press
the oars, a scythe pendulums the rye, watching
are the aging—invalids in their homes
keep the sugar-field sugar in medicine jars
 
Night of ill winds mottling the dark, naked dark,
calling to limpid clouds—elbowing fields
and cities and grass and seas. …rusting cage,
slumbering bars no longer inviting crooked
fingers; wings stretched in billowy drowse above
the threadbare sky, endless, unfolding,
silently rising, freshly exuding from its gilded cage.
 
 
 
Copyright © 10/15/2015 lance sheridan®
Poem