Rebecca Wright: The Torn Discovery

Spring '14 TOC

Still there is poverty
Its right hand clutches
                        what they hear in the adjacent streets
so far from the forms that riddle us
what the leisurely believe
the why
            of indifference

Its other hand scatters sand
apropos: the filth of ancient concepts
threaded among the commercial parks
the welcoming receptionist, the unwelcome dust

I can delay another day, without seeing anyone
I can believe in nothing
and nothing converts readily into a document,
                                    the placid province of absence
like the river yesterday flowing across the field
and today fallen back within its banks
day is dying over the tops of the trucks
                                                and the sunset finally burns out
in the black arms of the trees

the grinning oaks with their fresh new leaves
roses with their hearing aids
the ice storm did some random editing of the woods
            and snow crossed out a whole mountain range



Not Enough Night
Not Enough Night
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