Aubade

When the corner, that angle of streetlight and rain won't produce you, the dots, though connected, show no face. When the lifted blind reveals wet pavement and the hiss of the cars' tires sings of poetry--- crutch, lead sinker, savior, the song repeats the gaping of your absence. The sky frames the lone bird hopelessly. Like the poem hammering out its thin vision of the day, we have hammered out our existence. Now, like the poem, it flutters out of reach.

Return to Index