CUL-DE-SAC
He cries while he reads his own poetry, tears
dark upon the paper, wet upon his fingertips.
Light beyond the window hints at dusk.
A lone dog limps slowly across the yard
and then vanishes from view. No one comes home
who isn't already there. The house grows dark
as a lengthy gap that's been inserted
into what began as a lively conversation.
He doesn't turn a lamp on. There is nothing
to say even if there were someone to say it to.
On the cul-de-sac even the cars are quiet, hushed,
muted tones of color absorbing the muffled stars.
THE TASK AT HAND
Me? I'm lowering this gauze netting
against your going away, locking
its amplified essence deep in some
lack of light. I've sterilized
our bathing utensils, brushed
the lint from your dreams, and now I'm
being the one to hold your place in line:
hurry. I'm breaking all the windows
just to let you back in.
FOR LINDA
dizzy with notions
I call you up
(well, not really
but I could've)
and say
let's get together
it's been too long
the light is changing
as we speak
and we're no longer
young
enough to waste it
click for larger view
sombreros
 |
checkout
 |
| © 1998-2001 elaine thomas / the-hold.com - all rights reserved |
| |
to forum