A Man in Black Shoes Walking Slowly
      Because His Case Is Heavy

today the wind is here
from far away, from the silent neighborhood
invisible creatures are laughing
with the sound of ticking ten speed bikes
at all big sentences
and pudgy fingers squashed by crusted rings

the man who sweeps the floor
has cleared his countenance of memory
and that other language with the funny rhythm
father of all edge and angle now
he brings the trees inside where they are safe
tiny black haired girls no bigger than thorns
run to keep up with their loaded mother
chattering to her of the actual world
its monsters and heros

out in the county
abandoned houses are invaded by wisteria
no more iris, no more nandina
they use pie tins there to frighten deer away
from tender things, they put catfish
under pine straw for safekeeping

people in the city now
they know all kind of tricks—he said
but he was fooling
crumbs of marble lay around the sleeping dragon
both of them a city blue
and there's no law that says
you have to walk that way
like a chicken in a churchyard
while underneath the bones give in disgracefully
and shapeless forces have their way

Robert Gregory | Mudlark No. 17
Contents | This morning, breath is jealous