He could hear them off in the forest
massive branches breaking:
you are no good, will never be any good.
Sometimes they followed him,
rubbing out his tracks.
They wanted him to get lost
in the world of trees,
stand silently forever, holding up his hands.
At night he watched
the streetlamp’s light
soaking into his lawn.
He could bathe in its cool voice,
roll over to a whole different view.
What made them think
the world’s room was so small?
On the table he laid out his clothes,
arranging the cuffs.
What he said to his enemies
was a window pushed high as it would go.
Come in. Look for me where you think
I am. Then when you can see no one is there,
we can talk.
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[…] January 7, 2008 by Meghan check it out […]
Interesting poem. I like the last stanza particularly.
This one is hard for me. Maybe my brain is foggy, but I can’t picture it. Normally everything I read results is a series of pictures cascading through my head in a solid thread that weaves a story. This one feels like a bunch of loose ends. Maybe I will try reading it again tomorrow after I sleep. 😉
It feels a little bit like the beginning to a movie. Not quite a Nazi movie, but something like that. It has exactly that quality for me, for better or worse.