Muses
Take the dustbins, the quietness of little
city growths – why do they not do?
Not count? People get lost, but places too –
and somewhere a car-park is wandering
in limerance without a painter’s touch.
See now how the bus stop crouches in the cold,
it’s head frightened, loosening up branches behind -
you do not love it,
you choose others
and its embraces are where trees have been slighted.
That traffic cone, must it be?
A suicide unnoticed?
Ophelia’s riches are blocked in warning –
a silver stripe across their back
watching the accidents of men
who disappear and leave them mad.
I hope that the lamp posts
out on the street
are secretly conspiring
to love each other.
Marianne Louise Daniels
Tue 14th Jan 2014 15:28
thank you for the time and comments. xx