NO, I NEVER WENT
HOME AGAIN
Here we are, pushing salad greens
across a glass-topped table. Like
garden elves? Gnomes? What's
that word? The lamplight reflects
what we cannot see, and the now
evening sun reflects a prism on
the ceiling; from some glass-bar
you've hung in the window.
-
Nice enough, I suppose; but what
is it supposed to be? I can't make
definitions out of changing light.
Nor, to tell the truth, have I ever
been the sort to care about rainbows.
They never took my breath away.
-
An arcing prism in a miserable
sky, with some vague promise
of glittering gold at the end.
Which end? Both? Well then,
isn't that two, not one?
No comments:
Post a Comment