When finally you come to my place dear
girl you
Will notice how sincerely and
utterly Mississippian
These sad trees are that mark my property line
These wet and wounded laurel cherries that I
have
Yet to drop one by one and drag piecemeal
down
To the street and stack in a
log-and-brush pile
For the city dump truck to carry off
somewhere
Maybe down to the river for all I
know this havoc
Of comic hopes I call my place where
a luminous
Cloud lurks among the branches like a
lethargic
Shroud of moths and neither of us will
know if it
Is going away or waiting nor at what
diaphanous
Moment it will stop devouring
silence and start
Whistling and the trees will tremble
and groan
No comments:
Post a Comment