Monday, February 22, 2016


From the sky’s fifth quarter comes the wind
Houses shiver; the trees pretend indifference
Though the dead leaves turn green
And swirl up to their former stations.
Senior dogs are gathering in alleys,
Trying to plan a measured response;
The cats frantically barricade the streets
With old crones' bones and blank gravestones
And mortared confessions no one owns.
On its hook in his shop the butcher's apron
Sings gay and gaudy lies about him
A poem comes to my hand; all beak and talons
And crafty eyes turned cold with rage.

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