The Apology.
Autumn. Leaves commit mass suicide under the wheels of a one seven seven. Meanwhile
An apology does not arrive.
I am entranced by the visual anarchy
Of the leaves imprint
On the black shiny road,
Ephemeral enough to outlast
The non-arrival of an apology.
I want to spread my hand
And draw around each finger,
So as to complement the
Shapes of those leaves.
But no number of shapes
Can compensate
The lack of an apology.
Winter.
Snow this year is white.
It’s a blanket.
But not a blanket underwhich to lie.
Could I now receive an apology?
However white the snow
However perfect
However perfect
And totally different
Each flake
They cannot compensate
For an apology.
However incessant
And relentless
And ineluctable
The snow
However mysterious
And uninvited
However unaware of worldly pains
And pursuits
However nonchalant of human concerns,
Snow can never compensate the lack of an apology.
<previous poem next poem>
|