Directionless High
A Poem

Muttering about excess salt on the hands laying the ditch in such a way that will complicate the map Your atlas of books has made a poor travelling companion and we have been asked to leave several bars Your hip on my woman my man on your hand I scurry between metaphors to find out what you’ve done And I know that you think I have fully missed the point I know that you’re desperate for something to do
J.D. Harms 2020




