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VII

Edward Gates
From:   Heart's Cupboard.


the mink        weaved
paths through snow

I weigh the wages and laugh        mourning
madness        fumes gone        fish lost

it's too late        she bought her own darkness
in TVs' anesthetized air

so small and vase perfect
gifts unopened        words unsaid

                                                                    a

leg in each of my four traps in the
culvert that carries water into the pond

glaring        snarling        kindness bottoms out
the hammer raised        the sun past its prime



Edward Gates' works copyright © to the author.


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