alfie lee writing


what you mean

what does it mean
doing your best,
always circumscribed
by ability and chance,

with no music, feet
too, left, none asked
for, no lights dimmed
down low to dance?

the thunder called, in
the bellow boom
of a cannonball, the
danger is not at all

that you would change
your mind but you would not
know to accept that
only the echo

of your own frames
your own, ergo the reins
fall or rains not. and
your mind made rhyme

three lines ago, again, to cast
stones, not last, nor first
but in verse, through hot-house
walls of glass.


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