06 February 2007


204
What matters is the weight of sense,
Memory's false remorse.
The pine without scent, color,
Without sharpness.

No burial nor summation
But the sun turns
The shadow of a blade of grass.

What is.
A marble with a name in a field,
And a starling's plod gait and dart.

2 comments:

Antonia said...

i like about this poem that it does not make mewant to analyze it,just rading it like watching out of the window, lost in thoughts and associations.

mark said...

thats funny Antonia: that's sort of how i feel when i write it, really almost just go by sound--though I did have something in mind.