Late Burial
the small sound of an old radio, some music, words I
don't understand, a nostalgic howl with lots of brass
and acoustic guitar
The scene where the car is buried by snow, all the cars
are buried in snow, the road just a faint dent
the phone ringing, going to voice mail, the phone ringing
in someone's jacket pocket, the jacket buried in a pile
of jackets at a party
the rip along your cheek, badly sewn, a scar like a series
of faint pale staples, it was a motorcycle, you say,
or a drunk ex, you don't quite remember
the leather jacket hanging from a hook on a door,
the lining reeks armpit, vanilla perfume, sick cat,
ripped inside the pocket
the wind makes a small sound, rattles snow from beech
branches, the houses across the street suddenly veiled,
the man scraping with a shovel pauses and shakes off his hat
1 comment:
beautiful.
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