Saturday, April 13, 2019

Conrad Siever

A single red apple hangs in a tangle of branches against the sky
Not in that wasted garden

Where bodies are drawn into grass

That feeds no flocks, and into evergreens

That bear no fruit —

There where along the shaded walks

Vain sighs are heard,

And vainer dreams are dreamed

Of close communion with departed souls —

But here

Wednesday, April 3, 2019