Thursday, November 08, 2007

Zombie Susquehanna

We do not speak like pharmacists anymore.

Instead we groan in the dark streets like lovers

Eager to finish sowing the fields.

Some black and white photo of silhouettes in profile,

Pictures from vacations, head turned as though

To a voice calling from behind: over here.

We give up the city parks for pleasure

And look to walking meat sticks like flowers

To the sun. Here, the correct word for freezing

Is hunger. Not the mailbox, the imagined message

Through the air, that relinquishment of voice

To time and fingers slicing up the envelope

To return it to the hometown, little home

Drowning in the squeeze of its own juices,

Smearing across the table. We say what we feel.

No comments: