Skip to main content

Cri De Coeur

ISSUE:  Autumn 2000

The trees are dark and heavy, my love,
heavy with the sound of the locust—
the dead of summer has arrived.

The lane scripts its old questions
carefully down a canyon of trees.
Green, the sunlight shifts

and dims the credibility of things,
and then the pond is a field,
weedy and green, weedy;

the hospital, dirty squares of light
against a background of trees
dark with the sound of the locust.

Sleeping god in an age of plagues,
give us the chance to use the past tense.
Let us, with the charity of middle age, lie:

“Yes, it was all so beautiful. . . .”


This question is for testing whether or not you are a human visitor and to prevent automated spam submissions.

Recommended Reading