I think of
church’s and trains,
I think of your
interpretation of the
truth, I think of going
to someplace mysterious,
I think of quiet rooms with
sixty watt bulbs softly
swaying above empty
bottles and scattered poetry,
I think of the city birds
scaring the crows, I think
of Wagner and the death of
young soldiers, I think of
naked ghosts in the garden.
I sleep into the late afternoon,
I open the window to smell
the rain, I watch the winter
trees undress -
I wait for the storm …
Clay.M