770 Readings | 1 Rating


This city is not my language.
Under my fingernails there
are no pink

lines; in my walk I cross
no targets
held in blocks, gone

fences, all of them cut
wide and clear cornered. This
is a dog with man eyes caught
peeping through basement
windows, its tail half to bone, big
alley tongue.

I walk over its river, briefly, and then later back
off the loop at Quincy—these
are not my boats, my loop cut. This

of old trains
and buildings
and I, a countrymouse.
Posted 09/26/09
Comments (0)