Friday, March 23, 2012

Old Poems I

A week-end like dust

like dust collecting under the stove
and in the corners of this room,
on a chair, on the books and a window sill 

the air is laden with it,
with dry, weightless words
(that drift around and around),
with the besotted cries of the alleys below,
the tap tapping hum of air-conditioner vents
and the ceaseless run of cars

it lies thick on the city’s pale face
and still it covers all with despair—
like a jacket hung over a chair



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