Monday, October 16, 2006

Fresh Paint.

The cemetery gates were shiny black.
On inspection I saw clearly -
They were covered with dull, dead things.
Mosquitoes, some with wings that flapped,
wind tugged;
dandelion-clock parts passing lost time;
crane-fly legs still hugged
paint-stuck spiders’ traps,
their spinners pushed,
and brushed into corners,
ever patient for blow-torch freedom.
Dust and flower petals blown from graves
formed a rough top coat.
The gloss was only visible
from a distance.

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