Tuesday, July 7, 2009

This Town VII

i wait for a bus
i know i've already missed
and recall the feel
of the grass from Moore's Meadow
in the palm of my right hand.

it's this town, the cutbanks
and muddy waters
that converge on absurdity,
the midtown valleys that hide
in the past, rocks that jut out
of the ground deliberately.

this town is constantly changing
as i trudge through my sleep
through battered statues
that hold me deep
beneath the bones
in some familiar way.

and the trees no longer
moan and sway in gusts of agony,
though they tell
of misdirection and slight-of-hand
and a commodity that verges
on the plague of necessity.

every little trail leads me
deeper into the bowl, closer to its core
where even the weeds have something
meaningful to say, but
they mumble in tongues
and look away.

in the dark we almost
become friends
and listen to dogs bark
at the shadows between the trees.

we bark back,
of the significance
of our conversation
and when it's too quiet
to hear anything
it's gone.


  1. hey darcy: a few tweaks: Moore's Meadow? cutbanks, midtown, sway in gusts, its core, too quiet . . .

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