Buried Poem by Michael Arthur
Buried
Our sandbox
growing up had holes
in the bed of it
Pale as an hourglass
penumbra of a half-brick
half-aluminum two-story house
Rusted down
sifting rapture through our fist
crying out clouds
of our inheritance
Sunday, March 15, 2015
Topic(s) of this poem: childhood
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4/24/2024 2:11:19 PM # 1.0.0.1119
A great poem, our sand box growing up was a hole with builders sand put in it.