Poetry

Height after height of strange mountain scenes,

new words, new ideas in our conversation.

My friend has not called. I send her poems.
She says she likes them,
though they tell too much about farm life,
too little about me.
When I visit her in the summer, she says
she hates her job, she’d like
for me to live closer, that she’s afraid...

Pinned in to the scratchy scarf
and curtain-gown, she tries seeing herself
from a long distance-beyond her parents’

There drifts the sky again,
Here, a single thought crawls slow as a flea.

There was a burst
of static
on radios
all over the city