Scales
twenty-four inches for every one
in this world
table legs were sky scrapers and
bookshelves parking spirals.
peeling out, finger pushing the bumper, eyes on
dune and crevasse of the thread track,
we raced now one with each of the twenty four.
doug- I didn’t make sense of the numbers in the poem, especially considering how short the poem is. There’s something very alienating about numbers because they are so detached. I didn’t understand how this ended, and I think you need to extend it to provide more context. Is twenty-four the number of the racer? let’s see some more poetry from you on the blog!
maddie