Dispatch #139
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Poem Including History A curb the color of nausea. Parking lot gravel splintered with glass, dog shit, receipts. Storage sheds—a row of lamp-lit doors deepening as dusk thickens. Now, night, they're all that's left, and traffic's excuse for music moving through the room. first published in The Nation (December 29, 2008 Issue)
The thing I like best about your poetry is, that I think you are putting to words, exactly what you are looking at in your physical reality. At least I feel like i'm looking through your eyes!
This can be a counter-poem to Heaney’s “Door into the Dark”. Your doors are “lamp-lit”. And I like the liminal quality this poem has with all the evidence of life, but no person in sight.