Tuesday, July 29, 2014


In November’s uncertain light
Ishmael joins the procession.
What matter whose corpse he follows?
Even odds he’ll absent-mindedly
Mosey along past the cemetery
Until he’s companied the soul
Beyond the border. Its long home waits;
He, though, must find employment
Though his skills all have rust on them.
By the gates the other storytellers
Crowd closer, making space for him.

No comments:

Post a Comment