| |
no paperboy
delivers on his bicycle,
nor town-crier sings:
that tree which burns
gold on top as though only her hair got scorched, &
that songbird who fails to come
leaving the whole sky empty, drained of song, will remain to be tolled in
mystery.
The carpenter who mysteriously lost use of his right arm,
unable to move it from his side, goes from physician to physician:
What do the specialists say?
ten weeks later his arm’s still dangling, an odd
bruise-colored purple has appeared.
The dark news of morning
is reversed in evening
if there’s homecoming: An anthology of woe-telling:
the news so deep it keeps. Paperboy,
- Closed eyes, the heart knows the
headlines.
|
 |