L, e, t, t, e, r, s sway-ing
da
ng
li
ng
from nurons
as light harmonizes
tangible,
legible.
The mirror remains
yet unfamiliar.
My wheels have become
so brittle.
A comfortable shift
drift of thoughts
eases the moment
like the sticky sound of
horns o
o
ozing through
the grinding static
of radio.
Suddenly,
a warm voice
saves me from drowning
in dark spectrums
of ink.
Donald Fredette
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/etta-james-and-me/
