issue 27 > poetry > frydman

Where headlights touch a lawn, lush green.
Where alders have been hacked away, a birch.
Where a wire catches light, a line.
          Alive, in wet shoes.
          Not here long, not here again.

Something whistles. A darkened gull flies by.
On wooden porches in eternity
We'll stare up at a dissolving light.
          Alive, in wet shoes.
          Not here long, not here again.






Also by Anne Frydman:

Testament
Old Friend