Silent the Sun Falls

Silent where they fell,
spent ash, dog hair, coffee grounds.
Silent as they were when new to use –
for buzz, for warmth, for wake, now
bits of grit to grind down slippers
and vanquished for a pleasure.

Silent where they fell,
old debts dismembered,
chunks of glass that could perhaps
be re-assembled as candy dishes
or ashtrays – maybe porches,
where chew jaws took summer
and low orange breeze.

And the sun fell where it falls,
like threadbare throws, beaters
and rugs, old dogs
chained to trees,
and the red rust Fords
thumped down by the woodpile,
scavenged for parts – silent,
like the giddy knowledge of children,
racing in the torn sprung seats.

Image: Christopher Windus on Unsplash

Published in “La Piccioletta Barca” – Issue 18 – April 2020:

7 Thoughts

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