February 27, 2009


So there weaver,
fleeing fuzzy,
gravitating two-ward ruin,
similar to starchless spinach,
ourselves shambling through doors
sporting mysterious, complex knobs and stuff.
Groping through the salad, the olive ajar
with the eyes of Job kindled a sparkly prescience
with a tongue twisting word knot like
a level winding reel with a backlash of wild hair.
So there weaver with a delicate rivulet of sweat
waiting for Peugeot.

About charles frenzel

I've been writing all my life. I've also painted, composed, sculpted, contributed to molecular research, advanced some mathematical concepts, lived on a sailboat, and worked for a Nobel Prize winner. Nothing in my life has pleased me more than to share my life with my wife and friend of over forty years.

View all posts by charles frenzel


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