After Alexander Maksik's A Green Umbrella & Rufo Quintavalle's Shelf 19
I ask the flimsy flower
having sucked
toxins from
the infertile moon
there above the city
on the rusted, waxing night
weather turning wide of
an ending season’s warmth
a green umbrella
abandoned by my door
a gesture
perhaps you or yours
at last or longed for
landlocked
that, too, in this hesitancy
widened breaths
the little beach
hoping for deserts
against ocean swells
carrying things away or
looking in on the room
by my bed, your crippled desk,
some evidence sought
against tides’ black crescent
curves, listed or listening
to rain and ice floes
drifting decades
or kilometers late
too wide to go round
the urban bustle
thunder on the rise
toward the dark ship, mammoth
glacial blue and bluer still
all head cocked
strolling bare foot
ragged hair in your eyes,
sapphire wonder
for this one
confirmation
a last sign.
No comments:
Post a Comment