museum of useless things
Museum of Useless Things
A cup filled with pencils, un-
sharpened Gifts stacked in the closet
The door is off its hinges
And here are three words
that rhyme with blue:
gold, tobacco, oil.
The only death I know is
the guitarist with his string
Steel is lonely business
and nylon lasts forever
Place your ear against the cold
wall-and-feel of the earth
The stars have no names –
blinded, homeless, drifting
drifting
like a herd of goats in patchwork
over a far slant of meadow
[published in a slightly revised version, Siren, 1/07]
7 comments:
one can get lost in this place of yours...lovely
Striking imagery, Sam!
Oh, my I love those homeless goat stars.
And those 3 words that rhyme with blue.
I like a poem that's small yet....
huge.
I love this!
I like this a lot.
Your comments give me courage. Thanks.
love this. wonderfully meditative.
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