Wednesday, November 25, 2009

Poets and Poems - Tim Peeler

gravity 189

He ran like the thing itself

across the lazy hills where

the cows once lay just before

sunset licked the pines above

Lindsay’s field.

He ran slow as a wheeze

in October’s deep chest,

pumping his spindly arms,

through wild moustache grass

un-mown since late June.

He ran like the gentle hush

that falls over the field after

midnight, and his feet were

like the hands of an old clock

finding their way.


Carlos Colon said...

Excellent poem.

Warren said...

Beautiful! I love the feel of this one, the way it carries me through the poem.


Pris said...

Tim Peeler's work sings! Glad you featured him.