Honeybourne
No, no better name For how we desire
To slip into heaven
By way of great fire;
My favourite station With a short platform
Requiring us to run
Car to car, to reach
Its long wooden sign Signalling bee work
Has come to fruition.
Now, when in Detroit
We saw cornfields rising From factories cut open:
Pheasants in the rust.
A gun fight started up
Like an engine rattling. It was dust-beautiful,
A glowing sad vacancy,
A king's failed skull
Who enjoyed many kisses.
Honeybourne is the shore
Far from Motown's husk.
It hints of sunlit combs
Greeting dusk, raucous
Glinting from new hives
That spill their lustre
So the blind girls passing
Know to freeze, to stare,
Then cry tears so genuine
They burst into gold coins
On bright cheeks. It brims
To slop what's most sweet.
They slow dance, catching love.
The words do this, alight.
Pack each good thing into sight.
T. Swift
February 2015
No, no better name For how we desire
To slip into heaven
By way of great fire;
My favourite station With a short platform
Requiring us to run
Car to car, to reach
Its long wooden sign Signalling bee work
Has come to fruition.
Now, when in Detroit
We saw cornfields rising From factories cut open:
Pheasants in the rust.
A gun fight started up
Like an engine rattling. It was dust-beautiful,
A glowing sad vacancy,
A king's failed skull
Who enjoyed many kisses.
Honeybourne is the shore
Far from Motown's husk.
It hints of sunlit combs
Greeting dusk, raucous
Glinting from new hives
That spill their lustre
So the blind girls passing
Know to freeze, to stare,
Then cry tears so genuine
They burst into gold coins
On bright cheeks. It brims
To slop what's most sweet.
They slow dance, catching love.
The words do this, alight.
Pack each good thing into sight.
T. Swift
February 2015