08 08 11

The men in the work trucks sweep the streets clean of forgiveness.

The morning, unlike the rest, as people slept, stayed inside itself,

Refused its body and the poem a boy sent down the well outside his house.

The sun would not rise to read it,

Would not continue growing in the fields its fingers of barley or heat the ocean for rain.

The men in the work trucks pray for anger and get happiness, so they are angry.

This morning, unlike the rest, the boy stays in bed and listens.

His alphabet wallpaper no longer makes sense inside himself.

He cannot rise to read it,

Counts bees, bruised willow-sticks and ask for forgiveness and gets

Nothing.

The men in the work trucks break open trees and ask for water. It will not rain.

The sun will not eat. Morning turns, then darker.

Whatever poem the world revolved around is a heart now in a well and silent.

As people slept, something gave up, stayed inside itself.

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1 Comment

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One response to “08 08 11

  1. I like the form of this poem. The length of the line. It reminds me of CD Wright’s poetry. Beautiful.

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