Monday, November 4, 2013

Brownfield SIte

Drifting into the corner a knot of thread
Not of wire plugged into the dirt of a sofa
In the forest the walls soaked in urine
Like the earth just a portion of which
Can never return here to what was built
Are layers of paint on broken walls still
Layers under choked vines when the core
Of the wall exposed is cracked and laced
With the song of a hospital’s mother
Everything incites us to walk deeper
Into abandon the leaves the pharmacy
The dank tile floor of the woods
Now would be the time for a story
A pang of suspense in the rank brown air
But sometimes the stories are over
Told once and dispersed in aerosol bursts

Signed dark outside the abandoned lair 

No comments:

Post a Comment