|Jul/Aug 2007 Poetry|
In that city, they name
houses, they actually do.
The easy choices
are the ones that look well on metal
gates the colour of moss
and pride. These could run from gods
and the names of wives to copied
dreams, twists of words shaped into songs, birds, jokes
or even the first lines of nursery rhymes.
Beside those black boards that speak
in ornate syllables, the muddiness of the path
is familiar. So is the skeptical sky.
But what is most comforting is that in that city
where they name houses after memories
and unborn children, you could find one named
for the little river you grew up with. The one
that knows the name you found
for yourself on a marooned day, when the world
looked like a lonely child.