Friday, November 11, 2011

on a scrap of paper dug out from a box written last winter

Last night:

The rakes of empty branches
power lines hang globes of light
empty for adventure
darkness as a traveling coat
sameness
every shrub the same, regular
just a regular shrub
comforted only by this.

I know these shapes
should I dress them or leave this path
and I am saddened as I go
I let words go, alone as I am made
So how can I be sure the search made me happy
Alone, a heavy word, the words themselves stand
and let them stand

No comments:

Post a Comment