Oct/Nov 2008 Poetry


by Barbara De Franceschi


People come to see me
in ones and twos.
On rare occasions
of some significance to them
bearing chocolates—bunches of flowers
they come in threes and fours.

I do not know who they are.
They live outside the walls—
walls that keep me in a dry city.
One built with no thoroughfares
just a multitude of beds / fed
at a precise hour.

I inhabit my feet
wander paddocks where crops grow
in tartans and stripes.
Days trim into evenings.
It never snows.

And it's hard to fly kites
in a place
where no wind blows.


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