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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