Nothing to Say Today

So instead I cut and paste a poem by Laura Kasischke –– was turned on to this great, dark poet by the article in the Times on Stephen Burt.

Shana Tova?

 

March

 

It’s the murderer

who got away with it

sitting on a park bench

thinking about snow

 

and how it’s over.  Little

flower-faces peeking

out of dirt

to shriek hello.  While

 

the babies wheel

by, absurdly bright.  The old

men in amber.  The light

on the steeples served up

in cones of white.

 

But something here

is not quite right:

 

Old lady

in a little girl’s bonnet.

Ugly dog

with a child’s wide smile.

 

Always, in spring

you’ll find

someone with regrets

she’s allowed herself

to forget:

 

Eye at the keyhole.

Milk in the saucepan.

Strange wet kiss that went

 

on and on and on.

*I got this poem from a blog, where it was in a post entitled “Monday Poem.”  Maybe this verse reminds people of sad first days?

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