Letter Home

lost in a weed-covered city
asleep in a house of souls
in green days and silence,
precision of birds
waiting for rain, for a door
somewhere inside to open

a moon for hunting animals
slides into leftward clouds
a bee inspects a scarlet bicycle,
then lands to eat some salt from the handgrips
imported monsters stand at a naked window
and look out, the moth evades the sparrow
with beautiful random turns and falls
the large thin god of dew
lies fast asleep across the grass
birds make a little upward curve
as they approach a branch
lights come on in houses,
blue comes into the sky

Robert Gregory | Mudlark No. 17
Contents | Crossing the Sea of Kansas