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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