Friday, February 7, 2014

AFTERWORD

Old winterlight—streaming
cold

into the dusky
and glum 

oak-
book room—at the end

of afternoon
has never,

I notice—made me 
wonder at all

where in the 
world? so much 

dust 
could have possibly 

come from—but rather,
as now

and here 
again—how come? 

no one 
ever wonders—instead

where 
so much 

could 
possibly—end up?

No comments:

Post a Comment

HOW DO YOU FEEL?