Front Poem by Tom Pickard
Front
there is something so familiar
in what is said I stop and listen,
a traveller's monologue of dark moaning trees,
chopped waters,
deserted street corners,
randomly disturbed light,
raised curtains,
doors flung open,
sudden precipitous avenues,
far away dogs brought near
it is insistent
secures my inner ear
we pick up the old conversation
neither of us understands
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
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5/3/2024 7:34:57 PM # 1.0.0.1119
