Saturday, October 12, 2013

When We Lay in the Snow

It is getting late for the houseplants.

A solitary arm waves to Mexico.

An unexpected lover dissipates
like the texture of an efficacious snowball.

Dons an Aussie hat
and leans through the glad afternoon.

Surely someone will catch a carp
beneath this rubble.

Mice have fevers!
And we are running out of their sardine-can beds!

A child's autograph travels from room to smiling room.

The old rug is late getting back from the gallery.
He was talking to his wife who was keeping him
from being more than a rug, or so he thought.

Regressions and regressions of lesser amplitude.

No comments:

Like the Buddhist

Like the Buddhist I do not believe  in the afterlife but on Sundays  When the bells ring  in the lonely town  of Leverett And there are Thos...