Poetry Porch: Poetry



by Peter Anderson 

Tangled strips of pink
And white plastic
Like freshly flattened
Intestines in a heap
On the road

And I canít look away.
I'm fascinated.
Am I sick?

Nothing else around, but
Barrenness, the empty sky
And heat.

Itís the ribbon
They twine around those stocky
Whitewashed barrels
That stand at intervals
Alongside roadworks,
I think.

I change gears,
Climbing the hill.
Check in the
For that heap of guts,
Or is it plastic.

A taste in my mouth
Like fresh copper shavings.
It is the heat.

Or the blood.

Copyright © 2000 by Peter Anderson.
Reprinted from Vanishing Ground by Peter Anderson, with the permission of  Quartz Press, Republic of South Africa.