Tuesday, November 30, 2010
Sunday, November 28, 2010
Monday, November 22, 2010
Wednesday, November 17, 2010
Friday, November 12, 2010
Wednesday, November 10, 2010
The Sadness That Resides in Everything
You see it in the carriage of the woman
once a man, in her careful
navigation of cobble, hands jammed
in the pockets of her leather jacket; it trails
like a scarf, lingers in the shadow
that slides along the church wall, hovers
around her booted ankles in a swirl
of trash and dusty leaves. It makes you
want an accordion player to follow
behind her in perpetual serenade, though
that too would be devastatingly sad—
the old musician stumbling finally
to bed, the accordion left in the hall
to fart itself into restless silence.
And you can spot it in the young man
allowing life to stream around him:
it’s carried in his shoulders,
which hang on a broken coat hanger,
and caught in hands that mime
knotting a rope from a boat decades
shipwrecked. It’s there in the dusty
old dog napping on its side
in a depression of sun, and in
the young girl’s hard pull
against mother’s restraining hand.
In storefront signs, handbills
blowing down the street; in the clouds
huddling above your head. And
there in your chest, hard
as a plum pit, cracked and brittle;
and in your eyes squinting
into the day’s last sun; in the fleeting
look that no one cares to read, reflected
in the window of the kite shop
closed for the season.
once a man, in her careful
navigation of cobble, hands jammed
in the pockets of her leather jacket; it trails
like a scarf, lingers in the shadow
that slides along the church wall, hovers
around her booted ankles in a swirl
of trash and dusty leaves. It makes you
want an accordion player to follow
behind her in perpetual serenade, though
that too would be devastatingly sad—
the old musician stumbling finally
to bed, the accordion left in the hall
to fart itself into restless silence.
And you can spot it in the young man
allowing life to stream around him:
it’s carried in his shoulders,
which hang on a broken coat hanger,
and caught in hands that mime
knotting a rope from a boat decades
shipwrecked. It’s there in the dusty
old dog napping on its side
in a depression of sun, and in
the young girl’s hard pull
against mother’s restraining hand.
In storefront signs, handbills
blowing down the street; in the clouds
huddling above your head. And
there in your chest, hard
as a plum pit, cracked and brittle;
and in your eyes squinting
into the day’s last sun; in the fleeting
look that no one cares to read, reflected
in the window of the kite shop
closed for the season.
Tuesday, November 9, 2010
Monday, November 8, 2010
Tuesday, November 2, 2010
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