Bob Harrison

Rock Hard Pins

they are a rock hard Spanish olive, a parched and smiling

desert blowing in this tub lit soap. they are a finished groan,

a borrowed timepiece throwing dirt into the air and chasing

ends that wait all over stopped and whistling trains. two feet

smiling, dusty ends in parachuted plates, that softened fisher

swimming in their dusted Opera, screams inserted in their

sheets and bleating tanks increased until the younger years

inside their eyes are blanking, forming one. the shepherd groan,

the shimmering intention that has any flying saucer color won

through tongue filled cups and hands wiped falling through the sky.

what once its meaning was to shape the desert rake, the moment

in this record that believes when others might detour or blame

their automatic grins or ashen rent and whittled ice... riot where

an opening is powdering intention, fashion where an eagle licks

the softened rain beside my aromatic aisle and sandy weeks dissolved

to weep. all the animals that heave its fiction into western rattles,

seep its rented ash like suns entombed in cages under beeping oceans

holding any time and nothing twined together with an open stick