If backwards gifts replay
to foresight's grip,
forgive your pines their lethargy
that burning sighs bid reply
to questions never asked.

We will live yet
inside the walls, glued and bare
where color never breathed
through night, the courtesy
they bled won't weep
for all the distance shared.

If deaf desires insist
to wander,
seek loud in lofty sentences,
mock lessons steal frailly
so long departed
to hear such notoriety.

11/22/2018

Posted on 11/22/2018
Copyright © 2019 Matthew Zangen