Imagine this room,
stain on the dark wooden floor
hole where the gas line ran
where I sat up worried
I’d killed everyone.
A room wet with guilt
a shrine to ignorance
and naivety,
a manger of pain.
This room changed
but remained the same.
When I kept falling down
it made the same crash.
When I returned,
it was for sewing-
(Nothing else really)
My feet creak the floor
boards giving under the weight
of years, or under my shadow-
light
shadow
both mixed.
No shadow of turning.
Dave Barber
Albuquerque, New Mexico
United States
(Upcoming Book: 'Don’t Ask Those Questions')
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment