the fence out front lies broken still, still sways
and sends a string of broken slurs to each
pedestrian who wanders out this way,
a pile of bones whose wooden marrows seep
between the shreds of whitewashed shell, dark yolks.
those splintered wounds i have not dressed with oil,
have not bound up and rightened every spoke
and blessed the same with painted balm. that toil
would cover all the cherished charges saved
against the day of your return from Far
and Safe. thus, even though the weeds in waves
destroy the same, i clutch the hammer bar
and wait beside the bell, and strain to hear
the whisper of your tires approaching Near.


6 thoughts on “disrepair

  1. thanks, jessie! your thoughts are encouraging, glad you shared them. you caught this one hot off the presses — i’m still fiddling with the format, in fact.

  2. i’m so glad! i have been feeling for some time that i need a better sense of rhythm. i frequently forget that the english language has a pulse, and that the phonetic pieces of the words themselves express so wide a variety of connotative meaning, just by sounding the way they do: sh, ch, ts, ar, mm, and so on. thanks for stopping by, missgypsy!

  3. thanks. i think of the speaker in this poem as hopeful for some of the wrong reasons, and he’s/she’s stuck there. so it’s a bit of an odd combination for him/her. (i don’t even know their gender! what kind of writer AM i?!)

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