Brittle flowers beside
a window the balm
of the domestic, a cadence
of wrong looks—a doily
is full of holes like
the warped road to certain
sections of town. Paper
like this peeling
through the centuries,
painted over; these autos
junked; these people
how they once were, never
again now. An
aspiration
turns to dust just like a potted
plant does.
Buildings remain
but we do not
in them.
Today is a good day, I sleep
varicose to myself.
The pier, the awl, and the boys
next door gather up
tinder for my oven, two drops
of oils before I faint
in the cathedral, the linens are
pressed just so.
1 comment:
sharp observation.
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