Wednesday, September 8, 2010

a boy's summer solitude

When I'm almost
asleep I dream
of evening sky
a blown-out
red, a ripe apple
colored wound,

a scene from older
drives I took
in my dad's truck,
over dust-brown
roads where
I clutched
at need,

to weep
near a pine-built
shed filled with tools
I'd tried
and failed
to learn to use.

No comments:

Post a Comment