A Wrecking Disease
There was a bushel thicket,
crossed with sallow concrete,
metallic wires, I met upon
at last in infinite night.
A sort of sunny midday that
placed beyond disguise those
worlds long lost, misshapen,
to take away from
Broken promise, from swallowed
intent.
I make a shipwreck impossible,
blue yonder in rainy stark,
horizon simple, taking away
places for things besides adding
Machines to cut quick a
double-tailed strip that devours
what we were as figures on
dock lanes, in inert cafes.
We don’t talk of it much
anymore, even if we did
lose something every day
From living.
