Poet - Poem by Keith Waldrop
The wind dying, I find a city deserted, except for crowds of
people moving and standing.
Those standing resemble stories, like stones, coal from the
death of plants, bricks in the shape of teeth.
I begin now to write down all the places I have not been—
starting with the most distant.
I build houses that I will not inhabit.
Comments about Poet by Keith Waldrop
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