THE ENTRY
That man has come in from his
hiding, but I recognize his stench.
There's no denying how bleak both
death and decay can be. Watch how
that slamming door behind him seems
already to know all things about his presence.
It only reluctantly opened, and now only so
reluctantly closes - as if to say, 'do we
really want this in here with us?' There is
a dog across the carpet, weaving lazy
circles with its dreams. It stirs a bit, in
that only dog-like way that odors bring,
things too well-defined for us, but most
striking to the nose of 'dog'. I wish I was
a flower-seller. Then I could waltz
away.
No comments:
Post a Comment