E Y E W E A R, THE BLOG - FREEDOM MEANS BEING UNAFRAID TO WRITE WHAT YOU THINK

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 o f 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 t ears 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. Sw