Wednesday, October 31, 2007

A poem

This is a poem that isn't in the chapbook, it was taken by a magazine that promptly folded so I don't know what to do with it.

passing women

we pass women in the streets
we may compare them to broken leaves
if we will, or sheets that carpet a bed’s morning
with seeded sorrow -
we may compare them to tomorrows
no one bothered to remember
until they were dismembered as yesterdays -
or to a potency poisoned
by billboards and posters
posing beauty in their immaculate attentions -
or to a potential poetry they themselves never noticed.

we can compare them to anything, really,
except their conscious beings, their selves’
most private intentions –
these evade the most patient re-collection