Thursday, March 20, 2008


DEAD WAKE


Nothing much has changed since I left here.

There is a pigeon resting, spattering

the face of another blunted saint.

There is a numbers board clicking

at the Irish bar across the street,

the neon weakly blinking

through wrought-iron gates.

There is the ungiving sluice of traffic

from the highway, not stopping,

constant as tides.


And there is smoke

from some early Autumn stove.

Smoke which rises, urgent and groping, forgetting the fire from which it's made.

Monsters