Mar 18 2008
a poem from goodreads newsletter
…a site I begin to like more and more, despite its clunky interface and general slowness here.
Sixty-Seven Years by Ruth Bavetta
and I’ve understood nothing
except the stretched weight of summer nights,
the burn of the sun at four o’clock,
the shadows of the eucalyptus,
the indifference of rain.
I wait for clouds to arrive from the west,
for my teeth, hair, skin,
bones, fingernails to thin;
and the sky smells of melting candles
and the trees are still.
