Friday’s lust

is breaking all bounds

from oil and water

to double yellow lines.

The whole world

is mad, I tell you,

all fevers and dreams

of tendrils unwinding

as rain spills

down the gray slope

of the sky to join

waters dark and foamy

that swell the muddy banks

and flood the fallow field.

Will we slip there, too,

will we just be swept away?


About Ray Sharp

Father, poet, triathlete, local public health planner
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5 Responses to Downward

  1. Sigh. I love. Good lust poem. This is certainly one! Thanks for writing it.

  2. I admire the ending, being swept away ~

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