r too—r not
Having said to you, this is what I’m not,
is everything that remains me?
What a wide world I’d be—prone to discovering
forgotten parts. You know, those pages
secreted into the attic one summer thunderstorm ago,
then found again. Rain washes
at the last black snow, commuters between offices
curl deeper into themselves and cars splash shadows
across impassible sidewalks.
The words are a pressed black-eyed Susan, the memory sere,
the field of events where the flower was picked
now town houses, children in rubber boots
walking the parking lot.
Better that I tell you what I am, we’ll both know
the limits to surprise, how far you can see
into my brooding eyes, watch October
leaves dance as though
they’re the masters of sunset and sunrise.
2 comments:
hi, very good poem. i think this has great flow, the inevitability rising above it.
Thanks Jill. I think there's a longer poem in there somewhere, though I perhaps shouldn't look too deeply into the poem's eyes :).
Helm.
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