By Eugene Datta
PROMPT — The way I see it ...
A tangle of leafless branches
and twigs across a wire fence,
and through it the winter sky:
patches of blue, gray and white,
twilight-washed, reflected
in the pond where bathing, ice
skating or feeding the ducks
are forbidden. In a little yawn
of cloud-less water, the twin
contrails of an airplane are a taut
arrow, which turns, with a sudden
gust of wind, into the droopy slither
of a snake on its way to the next
sky-dune, from where,
as the water stills, flocks of birds
fly.
Eugene Datta's work has appeared or is forthcoming in The Dalhousie Review, Rust & Moth, In Parentheses, Poetry Breakfast, The Passionfruit Review, Main Street Rag, and elsewhere. Born in India, Eugene lives in Aachen, Germany.
Comentários