Wednesday, October 26, 2011

Poetry Wednesday


there is mercy
in our relation to the sky,
the waking each day

to smallness

to a coldness that comes so

and finds the ways in.

(we have grown old.
the snow is falling on our skin)

Annnnnnnnnnnd something not-mine that I love:

Morning at the Window
by T.S. Eliot

They are rattling breakfast plates in basement kitchens,
And along the trampled edges of the street
I am aware of the damp souls of housemaids
Sprouting despondently at area gates. 

The brown waves of fog toss up to me 
Twisted faces from the bottom of the street, 
And tear from a passer-by with muddy skirts 
An aimless smile that hovers in the air 
And vanishes along the level of the roofs.

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