Apr 26, 2014

4/26/14



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.

No comments: