Everything was just confusion,
And dirty too, so it goes (So I said). Otherwise, I wouldn’t have looked (heaven knows) For a clean undershirt. The light Had hurt my eyes, everything Was blurred. And now the light was sweet, The morning birds were chattering. I pushed a tunnel through the grass And crawled to a wheat-stalk cave And light filtered down and the sweet smell And the crowding, curved architrave. It all started (I believe), With one of those gales so prevalent That time of year. It broke the oldest Boughs, wild, belligerent.
0 Comments
Leave a Reply. |
Yaacov David Shulman
Archives
October 2019
Categories |