Friday, February 3, 2012

The Gate

and what of the angry dark eyed boy
who whistles Suicide Is Painless?
and broken
but not so
it's unintelligible
no, it's a hard emphasis
mad breathy improv
as he goes through
the automatic doors into the market
and earlier it was the black iron work
in a gate that lead to a garden
a blacksmith's delicate parenthesis
against too many layers of white paint
that asked me to linger on the street
but the dog had other ideas
the smell of grass
cut in February
under bare beech trees
the green clippings drift into our path
and they seem as odd
as the boy's tune
and later we wind home
a black cat stretches fast
across the road in front of us
the dog wants me to let him go
but instead i spit for luck
and squint at the cold western sun

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