untitled 2 - The Poetry Shelter

" Give me new Phoenix wings to fly at my Desire " John Keats
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untitled

The covered table umbrella stood like a centerpiece obelisk
as the trash was taken out and souls went to work
the birds - the people.
Song's in the air below a curiously low-flying helicopter
- close - above the shadows that apportioned
the greenery, sectioning the conifers.
Barn swallows punctuated the streams of collective birdsong,
sewing the morning to the pool, empty as a Catskills stage
in the afternoon - looking like a ripening ruin.
Houses basked like safari statues.
" Every channel you turn to they play the same songs in the same order..."
my mother said...
by then... Sinatra long dead.


© 1998 Sunshine
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