After a week of heat, real heat 105-106 on the olde Fahrenheit scale, and a mere 114 on the Hysters (forklifts) we drive at work, I am ready for fall, all the wonders of fog and rain and chilly winds.
Today’s poem is from 2:94.
Not much else going on. Work, heat and not enough sleep - so like, man, what else is new?
Take care. Support them local and small presses as much as you can. I’ll post again sometime, but as is rather obvious, there is not a lot of urgency or regularity in it these days.
FOR HOWARD NEMEROV
trees, which hold up the hem of the sky,
are being felled. & the sky too is falling.
i know trees grow old, diseased & die. but
the same seems to be true of the sky.
night is an incantation of insignificant things -
the chirp of cricket, the moan of toad.
night spills from the edge of failed dreams. &
the sparse trees can no longer hold the entire sky.
soon, crickets tell me, there will be only darkness -
the canvas full of pin holes -
scratches left by the fallen trees, only memories,
gone the way of other prophets.
the sky is now in the very lap of toads -
the tattered hem no longer beautiful.