Thoughts

Thoughts

A man
sits alone.
One thought
becomes a
torch
juggled
with others.

John Donne’s
torches
rotated
like brass gears
on a mantle clock
gilded
with angels
blowing
long horns
of exquisite love.

Thoughts
became mantis
inside
night’s
broad hips.

Thoughts
exhausted
on the nude shoulder
of a
split-rail fence.

Schooled by witches,
thoughts
are gypsy insects
who celebrate
villages
sunk in
clover.

Tiny sopranos
of magnesium.

Thoughts
are hinges
that behave
like bees
intoxicated
by the wrinkled orange
of squash trumpets.

One thought
is a gear
that slips
forward
on the tractor-trailer
navigating our
drowsy neighborhood
this evening.

Thoughts
are cobra eyes
rising along
a toad’s
thick neck.

Passengers
drift like thoughts
behind
the flickering windows
of a distant
train.

At night
the train’s
wheels
leave
deep scars.

Alan Britt

Posted over on Eleventh Transmission