Copy Children

as it is

As if a train cut me in half

And as I bleed the back of my head moves

Into my sight; God the bully

Has punished me with all these copies;

A tin voice I thought I`d buried

Short trousers. Teeth of a kite.

An inside creaky as an old mill

A stairway too tight at the end,

Barrels to be filled; cold with echoes

I am trapped in a paper bag

Full of birds,soft and sick-warm

Falling on a cracked pavement.

It often rains in early evening.

The night sucks you out.

You wander and seek others.

Reviews

[Helen Crutchett]

So many amazing stanzas that transformed this into one awesome poem. I truly enjoyed this finely crafted piece from you Leslie. It's a pleasure to read you again.

Regards,

Helena

[Marie Anzalone]

The images in this, Leslie, are stark and fresh and demand attention. I may be misreading, but I cannot shake the feeling of a young man stuck in blue collar toil; all day labor in lightless, joyless rooms; stuffy conditions, dust, grime, fumes, broken wondows. I am transported back to the factories of my hometown, and the sense of bleakness that permeates like a fog. Assembly workers, making copies... where creativty is stamped out as harshly as individuality.

[Leslie Philibert]

Thanks for the perceptive and fine review, you have a feeling for literature that I recognise in your
own work...best wishes