Poems June 2015
Signs
The complex going up
opposite us prompts a sigh:
We’re losing the sky.
*
No Trespassing on
the gates of the condemned jail.
Below that, For Sale.
*
This one says it all,
doesn’t it? We buy ephemera.
Quick, where’s the camera?
*
Paradise Yard Sale?
Tempting to write just below,
Everything must go.
*
Think what we might find,
though, at a Paradise Yard Sale.
The True Cross, the Grail . . .
*
For geese in flight, V
is not a sign they can see,
but a way to be.
*
We find Paradise
late. There, for a song, we get
an incomplete set
*
of chipped china and,
at no additional cost,
a collected Frost.
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This article originally appeared in The New Criterion, Volume 33 Number 10, on page 26
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