The blackbird, the sparrow
perch beakless on sinking wires,
bobbing in the wind, in the wake.
Sparking steel dragging through the street
—not the best metal, like fingernails
flaking, chipping. Mine belong to the days
when tires froze to the streets
and the sky never caught fire—
this drum never caught—
and Lucy,
you end me.
1 comment:
these are sweet. I always liked the punchlines at the end of your poems...now they're all punchlines! The more concise they get the better. This one is really good though. Did you say the thing about "when the sky didn't catch fire" because sunsets are colorful cuz of polution...you know, from cars?
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