“I love this song—don’t you?”
Piano, then whistling the piano.
“Love this song? It’s so sad—”
I start to walk the house with my eyes closed
and wonder what it would be like,
to lose the both of you.
“It brings you to that time—doesn’t it?
Doesn’t it just bring you to that time?”
The answer I see is all red,
and this celestial wandering
brings my nose up close to the kitchen window,
through which a clear warm undressing
has begun of a devastating pair
of such young beech trees.
Thursday, April 30, 2009
Posted by Robert Sparrow Jones at 8:50 AM
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