The Poet to His Love

Down the long avenues of your eyes,
Occupants pull concluding asters in front yards
   and go indoors for the winter.
I, only, walk down these streets
Where rain forms on the windshields of parked cars
And the soul blows from the north at four miles an hour.
Behind the houses, closed gardens darken:
The fruits go out on the vines like lights.
One empty upstairs window is lit
   against the sky like a low square moon.
Beyond the houses, in a field barely furnished,
Where wild mice make brief sounds in the grass,
A single thorn tree is left unfinished.
Beyond the field: the uneventful woods,
The wet nests coming untied from the trees,
A creek that struggles through stones and dead matter
   like words that cannot get to a mouth.
Down the long avenues of your eyes,
   the leaves are flying south.

–October 21, 1972

(“The Poet to His Love” appeared in the Summer 2003 issue of Hidden Oak, Philadelphia PA.)

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Published on January 10, 2007 at 5:49 pm  Leave a Comment  

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