The Hardest Part of Spring
The ragged edge of new field,
An egg:
A hollow bone.
A noticeable sagging
Of skin under eyes,
The economy of
Cells.
Pinch of salt,
Mashed and muddled
Weather:
My inability to get
To the root of things.
A long,
Low-slung day.
The world is never new,
As if the rituals of ancients
Were caught in our teeth.
Dab the knife but a little,
Beat your retreat.
The scorekeeping
Of our endless
Country drives.
Sore thighs
Wrapped around modern
Concerns,
The strides of ghosts
Down the backroads
Sing
Before the wet ditch,
A pink graveyard
Of hearts.
No comments:
Post a Comment