|
|
|
The door of the long-distance bus Closes. The engine growls, And light licks the street. Then it's gone. I walk by the gutter Under the nailhead stars. The key finds the door. The ashes of last year's wind Stir in the dead grate. In my room, Mildew has disinherited sweat. I fumble for the light. My Lady of the Staple Stares from the wall, Perfect but unlovely. I take a chair, and try to believe The hours will revive That myth called morning. |
|
|
|
 |