Saturday, December 29, 2007


You wear it and it snows: tracks empty the park outside the museum. A promo pen blues

your breast-pocket lining, and a snag starts to pull at your sleeve. The last one left

is as good as extinction
. So says the quote on the leaking plastic.

But someone’s pinkie shined of wax on this second-hand tweed

flecks the lapel with an old, cleared hearing – conversation recorded in a stain.

The branches listen in, for this tree is like talk and there’s always a point

from which you are behind it, windows lighting up in the dinosaur wing.

by Charles Hansmann
Sea Cliff, New York
first published in Snap Poetry Journal

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