A Time of General Turmoil by Max Winter

Things hit me all the time
I don’t know what they are
They keep my shape in constant flux
Or as you said when you rose from the lake
The place of song was beside my foot
I touched it once and it wriggled away
Here we are in the open air it is not so  bad
Despite the words that came from under the beards
Gathered at the end of the year
Which you doubtless heard—it shows
In the color of your face white man
And in the rhythm of your shaking hands

I am more gathered and collected than I seem
I complete the sentences I do not say
The ones I say I entitle
They are beautiful in their imperfection
They will last
An hour is as good as a wave of symbols
Organic or not the legacy continues
We grow fathers under our eyelids
The legislation is soaked in ice
Leave it in the sink and the world will change
As if all never happened you appear singing
But on tape the melody is a series of taps
I am a mouth harp left in the rain
The bombardment ceases only when the head bows
As if in mourning

by Max Winter
published in Caffeine Destiny

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