THIS THE CAMERA EYES
Nothing wavers, the wide wind wails. The stems
and branches of everything else, bent and taunted,
seem happy in submission. I am watching the old wood
on the sides of houses, old paint peeled, glass and
edgings broken and rotted. What yet sings are only
the tunes of other years - some nasty hit-parade
of memory. No one has lived here for twenty years.
-
It seems as if everyone has long ago died.
Stuck in old hedges, a dried-out, discolored
old toy, a child's bike, rusted, and a yellow ball.
No comments:
Post a Comment