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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