Friday, October 22, 2010
Lungs
Lungs are the forests of the body, pegged
At the bleeding edge of a sponge: an image
Sandwiched between broccolis of meat.
Lungs are lawns pocked with bunkers
Radiating out from the heart of the club house.
Lungs are El Niño, Beelzebub, Singapore Sling.
Lungs are a chameleon. Then they’re not.
Lungs are a decision tree.
Lungs are a drop of dye dropped
in a glass of water. Lungs are the tip
of an iceberg. Not. Lungs are your internal air bag,
useless in a crash. Lungs make you
a wine flask. A blushful Hippocrene.
Caverns measureless to man.
Lungs are the forests of the body, pegged
At the bleeding edge of a sponge: an image
Sandwiched between broccolis of meat.
Lungs are lawns pocked with bunkers
Radiating out from the heart of the club house.
Lungs are El Niño, Beelzebub, Singapore Sling.
Lungs are a chameleon. Then they’re not.
Lungs are a decision tree.
Lungs are a drop of dye dropped
in a glass of water. Lungs are the tip
of an iceberg. Not. Lungs are your internal air bag,
useless in a crash. Lungs make you
a wine flask. A blushful Hippocrene.
Caverns measureless to man.
// posted by George Manka @ 9:47 AM 
