ISSN 1758-6488
|
Four Poems Poetry |
print view |
On My Rounds
As though to say, my being is contained,
you hoarded plastic bags across your floor,
till what was hard and flat about your room
gave way to formlessness: the flabby lips of
hold-alls swallowing each other. Portering,
I knocked, to mute a smoke-alarm, and though
you let me in — halfway — you let me in on
nothing. Your slow nun’s face was clear,
despite the background flow of little clouds.
And this was how I knew you: outside-in —
your look of mission, your daily marches,
with backpack full and three bags in each hand,
as a star in an overlooked part of the sky
might be remembered by the Roman Empire.
