Ostfront

Ostfront.

Das Vergissmeinnicht.

Smoke thick as oil.

The Moon hard as glass.

Farmer-faced they are blown like stars.

Bitte.

Take them home to;

A meadow vincented with August

With the warm diesel of bees,

A contract of wheat, girl`s hair.

An embrace blooms,noble white,

Open with milk, soft down.

But for now;

Two blind men play a game of chess.

Reviews

[Tina Kline]

I really like this. Well written and interesting and a tad bit mysterious.
Fantastic descriptions. A unique poem.

[jacob erin-cilberto]

what a paradox...and delightful...all that description of the setting...what is all around them...what could be, what might come...but for now--
"Two blind men play a game of chess"

whose move is it?