SATURDAY, APRIL 02, 2005
When I arrive there late
my fist is grazed
by the raw iron gate
but the catch slips
and I am with the trees
listening to the buzzing
of cicadas humming
Sibelius and the graceful
wing brushing at the air
The bark holds on
a brittle magnified skin
more divine and elegant
than our sloughing cover
our coughing splutter
and gasping breath
that the trees lap up
cleaning the air
originally published without title
No comments:
Post a Comment