A Poem: Street’s End, Gainesville, Florida


But nothing does, of course:
the avocado sofa in the weeds

will keep some time, a whaling ship
of corduroy and springs

sea-struck, side-split, gutted
on a beach of motor oil and gravel,

the world itself now sunk
rammed by a monster storm,

its few survivors mustering
what dignity catastrophe can spare —

the arms of laundry posts
barnacled with rust

but open still, the calcinated box
of a pine dresser gray with age

still willing to hold
the secrets of earthworms.

A skeletal Ford.
Its vaguely human form.


This poem was one of the two first poems I placed in a first-rate poetry journal, back in the late 90’s. The other one was “What Vallejo Calls Notre Dame Bridge.”

The very talented Cathy Cullis kindly featured them in her site recently.



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