by Gideon Burton
My only measuring, the fingered soil
I loosened in the cooling evening, dark
and light. And though the very skin of oil
that lines the distant highway’s asphalt, marks
the jagged underdressing of the sky,
I don’t suppose the waving sage will sleep
away the windy desert. Time to try
how many wilted metals sigh and weep
as rain descends to seed their sides with rust.
The tire swing has worn away the grass,
and autumn heat has broken summer’s trust
in what would live, in what would turn and pass
beyond the meter doubled of my height,
no matter how the sinner dims the light.
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution 3.0 Unported License. Feel free to copy, imitate, remix, or redistribute this poem as long as you give proper acknowledgment of authorship. Photo: flickr - Bukutgirl
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