Pastoral
When I was younger
it was plain to me
I must make something of myself.
Older now
I walk back streets
admiring the houses
of the very poor:
roof out of line with sides
the yards cluttered
with old chicken wire, ashes,
furniture gone wrong;
the fences and outhouses
built of barrel staves
and parts of boxes, all,
if I am fortunate,
smeared a bluish green
that properly weathered
pleases me best of all colors
No one
will believe this
of vast import to the nation.
—
You were probably imagining barely standing walls, bric-a-brac; maybe some knee-high grass amidst patches of dirt (Imagism).
I’ve tried to distill the idea further down to color saturation, no ownership (nor pride of ownership), but rather an ever-present, creative vandalism.
Thanks for looking…
