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FROZEN TICK
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2003 Poetry The pavement unhinges
the velocity of a gait.
Bare feet marking spaces,
walking in no directions.
The pace slows down
to gape at the wilting blooms,
which were charily set on tiled wound.
The angel’s weep is too palpable,
but not a single tear could resuscitate
the rose from going back to its former redolence.
Where are the amaranths
that were sowed years ago?
Perhaps amaurosis may have
driven them away.
Slowly, the white gate is shutting,
and so is a will dangling on the cliff.
written 9/18/03
