December 2012


One who has a home no more
and hasn’t got a mate,
fades in the coffee bar alone,
days and nights disconsolate. (more…)

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The clock’s sounding gently its dreary tick-tock,
The house is so still, the walls are so grey…
It’s achingly dismal, the silence is heavy,
How slowly the hours are slipping away… (more…)

I have eaten
the plums
that were in
the icebox

and which
you were probably
saving
for breakfast

Forgive me
they were delicious
so sweet
and so cold

A thousand hills, but no birds in flight,
Ten thousand paths, with no person’s tracks.
A lonely boat, a straw-hatted old man,
Fishing alone in the cold river snow.

Men in overalls the same color as earth rise from a ditch.
It's a transitional place, in stalemate, neither country nor city.
Construction cranes on the horizon want to take the big leap,
   but the clocks are against it.
Concrete piping scattered around laps at the light with cold tongues.
Auto-body shops occupy old barns.
Stones throw shadows as sharp as objects on the moon surface.
And these sites keep on getting bigger
like the land bought with Judas' silver: "a potter's field for 
   burying strangers."

The whole mournful city was drifting
Towards a destination nobody guessed.

We stopped the Citroen at the turn of the lane,

because you wanted a sprig of blue rosemary

to take home, and your coat opened awkwardly

as you bent over. (more…)

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