John Skoyles (2001)
I see straight through myself
and into the no mirror.
A frame stares back,
announcing the time: late.
And the temperature:
still warm.
I recognize the calm
bystander's snowy face,
the handwriting on the blackboard
where the chalk dust
from the names of the present
falls to the ledge
toward those who have disappeared.
Monday, March 10, 2008
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1 comment:
from The Poetry Anthology (1912-2002)
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