Atop the falling barn
squeaks an arrow-
turning painfully
with the wind
perhaps yelling
at the rusty, bent
nails
who never cared which
direction they pointed,
and who are now
in their old age –
finding it hard to
support
the gravity beckoned planks.
There – in a unison
of cries
leveled
bursting dust
a stabbing reunion
between a now silent
arrow
and a long awaited rooster
turned to rust.
Zc
No comments:
Post a Comment