Dead Willow
Dead Willow
[There is a straw mattress
full of bedbugs under the dead willow,
where the tears of every whore
in town are as open as red hibiscus.
It is the only place left to wait.]
We went our
separate ways,
but when I reached
the train tracks
I picked up a few
rocks to throw
at the racemes of
trouble hanging
in the meadow
orchard ahead.
My feet, undefined
wanderings
of a bite, were in
pain
as I suspect they
will continue
to be until my time
spills over.
I knew there was a
mystic
in the ordinary—(à
la Rilke) that would carry me
(Oh Orpheus
sings! Oh tall tree in the ear!)
through the rest of
the day,
like that first cup
of coffee,
or a prayer said in
the
distant past.
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