This is the season of dried rushes
and sodden leaf-matter in parks,
when the lightly furred animal bodies
of the people break out in sores

and a mild but insistent contagion
blooms in the chilly dampness.
The lowered sun does not yet warm them,
despite cerulean skies.

The meat-headed race trundles along
in groups, God love them, and their
comforts—blood ties and a stiff Scotch—
suffice somewhat or else not at all.

From a far country comes news
of the current crisis, about which little
is known. Its distant horrors
are rehearsed for a few still listening.

A woman in a shop says, “Maybe
tomorrow,” and the eyes of the burghers
streaming across midtown intersections
brighten a moment, then dim.

Others flee on vacation
to a place where they might clear their minds
and hatch a few plans for the future, while
waiting for the weather to improve.

The Image archive is supported in part by an award from the National Endowment for the Arts.

To experience the full archive, log in or subscribe now.

Related Poetry

abstract image of a window with scratches and dew on it, background is green and murky and blurry.

Sudden Death


Richard Michelson



Patricia Fargnoli

Common Ways


Greg Miller

[Today, having swigged a half-liter]


Dimitri Psurtsev

Pin It on Pinterest