You of
twisted
roads,
secrets,
stone,
phone wires,
laundry lines,
statues
green and crumbling,
blue number signs,
old faded doorways,
metal balconies
and black aching trees.
How can I understand you,
the way you hold cities
and people,
in your delicate,
skeletal hands?
The way your monuments
rest in the hard,
ancient
hearts
of your people,
passing within each other
like shadows:
buses
and cigarettes at night.
The freedom of the dark cold sea,
filling them--
drinking to feel.
I cannot understand
these barren emotions,
the way the smoky clouds,
and desolate trees
blend days together,
people together,
into brown and black.
You,
who carves me at sleep
into solitude
and questions.
No comments:
Post a Comment