Portrait of a Small Town

Here we have a philosophic parking lot
between tall buildings.
Both are forgotten,
their doors are gone,
but weeds gyre there
through asphalt,
and the weird sorts of “flowers”
each stubbornness gets,
it grovels on
the nearest sky.
And it is a life,
we call it a life
to find, and it is
a life to lose,
its various folds,
to collapse into integument,
to become a stone
with our arms across
our chests at the end.
Across the street
though, it is still now,
I mean the green sort,
dirty old steel mill canal
nobody uses anymore
except the fish
with long whiskers
and protected opalescence
that no one would ever
think to call


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s