I’m alone with the ghost of the swamp, somewhere near the weeping willows.

It is strange how a scrap of poetry works in the mind and makes the legs move in time to it along the road.

Three birds sit on a wire
One bird poops
Three birds shit on a wire

the flesh covers the bone
and they put a mind
in there and
sometimes a soul,
and the women break
vases against the walls
and the men drink too
much
and nobody finds the
one
but keep
looking
crawling in and out
of beds.
flesh covers
the bone and the
flesh searches
for more than
flesh.

If a poem is not memorable, there's probably something wrong. One of the problems of free verse is that much of the free verse poetry is not memorable.

In the boundaryless forests,
there’re dancers of nude.
Yet in the confines of pasture,
there’s promise of food.
On which is your side?
Ô, but tarry and bide,
ere you decide,
in both do confide.