NICKEL

 NICKEL

My sorrow, it's your ride touching.

Black cape on the solitude, and

baskets in the hay. My sorrow, it's

your dust blowing; kicked up on

the dried-out road. Rock fence

crumbling, old pond dried now,

marsh tree sagging. Branches

that hang. My sorrow, it's your

plea banging the forgiveness

drum, and, my sorrow, it's your

gaze hanging from the maple tree.

Someone has left a raft put on the

water. Who's come here? Where's

he been? Which broken window

lets the sun shine in?