Concrete spider legs that spread
their knobby knees out over time
through the crumbled layers of lime
on a street that thinks them dead
                    &
Wrinkled lines that slowly make
their craggy valleys over skin
tell tall tales of what'’s within
until the point they finally break
                    &
Fine forests of blonde tree stock
there waving in the wind and rain
unaware the numbing pain
of their quickly thinning flock
                    &
Calendar pages that surely turn
a little worse with every moon
that rose too high, then sunk too soon
before we had the time to learn
                   ...
The very certain, precious parts
that don'’t decay with damning age,
that don'’t fade out on yellowed page
that hurry themselves from head to heart.

08/11/2008

Posted on 08/11/2008
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