Reading

Each day now I climb the branches of my private tree
Not as a child might, more like a scholar
Whose life has failed in the city
Whose friends vanished
Over the lake of the underworld.
“I know you,” I say to the beetle,
“I read your declensions,” I tell her.
The top of her back,
What they call “the carapace” is clean Braille.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s