The withered palms
Of Sassafras
And pointed
Sweetgum fruits
Litter childlike
Rolling
Hills down
Into fields
Thence given
To free ways
To wheels
Ground to eat
Up scenery
Sojourning truth
And lies abandoned
In motel pools
False ponds
To leap
From whether
To whether
Never too long
On landing
Above my head
The trees go
All veiny
Like atlas maps
Taped and torn
From use
And a false spring's
Inconstant motion
No shelter
Leaned to
In violets
Thresh holds
This grass
Of yellow
Dying light
In December
Tom McGlynn
copyright 2013
No comments:
Post a Comment