Byline from Blacks Point
Rewind to a church on the rise:
we’re making rough cuts
like Burroughs & Matisse,
getting down to business
outside on the lawn, where fishing
angels catch us unawares.
Inside, antiquated minutes bask
cover to cover – wheeled out
for a good once over –
itching for a footnote
in this time weathered collage;
our own past turned inanimate,
as though in glass plate stasis –
dripping from hallowed walls.
© Orion Foote
Visions of Orion Poetry 