Friday, April 9, 2010


There is no forgiveness
to be found along
these sidewalks.
The hands of men
have poured them straight –
the angles of intersections
cut with precision.

Back home,
Summer stuck
in the minds
of southern city planners,
and their boulevards
gently drawled –
buttered grits in bowls
and slices of coconut cake
sliding out the icebox.

Sherman’s armies
crashed along
Peachtree St. –
a swell of amber froth
licking up the sides of buildings,
a spray of char,
a touch of the torch.

This is to say
that the shirt I borrowed
smells like you in the armpit
and I wish
you would
talk to me
about architecture.

1 comment:

Julian said...

This is really good!