A Broken Poem


Possibly the saddest thing I have ever heard ó and I have heard a great many sad things, and have marveled at each as they have arrived, weightless and unbidden ó is the sound of my mother helplessly scratching her dry scalp when she wakes up in the morning, unready to face the day.

The sound
is almost tangible
in the dim light,
as if it were
a broken poem
building a nest
in the attic,
or a bare tree
that has gone
searching
for its leaves.

July 18, 2006


























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