Poems January 2005
Overpass
Beyond the clouds’ crumpled page, a winter water-
mark of sun. The houses lean on the wind, another
transient body of wind within weather, an unbound
spill of smoke, soot to smudge these hills. A clutter
gates the raw fence of wood, woods where trees rake
air for what a wind can carry—dust, leaves, paper
scraps which tell no story but that of tangled flight.
The hills ring, delimit a sense of risk. Seen, here,
from overhead, asphalt’s conduit sends and receives,
retrieves passing messages, overheard whispers
we cannot quite decipher. All along its edges
are scattered cast-off rags, torn strips of rubber.
A Message from the Editors
At The New Criterion we will always call things by
their real names.
As a reader of our efforts, you have stood with us on the front lines in the battle for culture. Learn how your support contributes to our continued defense of truth.
This article originally appeared in The New Criterion, Volume 23 Number 5, on page 32
Copyright © 2022 The New Criterion | www.newcriterion.com
https://newcriterion.com/issues/2005/1/overpass