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Eileen Adams
Yield to the rhythms
of living
Lowell and I ate
fresh salad on my
porch
high enough to not
miss sundown
my next door neighbor
takes in sun
naked on the porch
we share
she asks does she
offend me
and Leslie sent me
shells and driftwood in a
little box from Chicago
A sky that has never known sun, moon, or stars,
A sky that is like a dead, kind face
Would have the color of your eyes,
O servant-girl singing of pear-trees in the sun
And scraping the yellow fruit you once picked
When your lavender-white eyes were alive.
On the porch above you sit two women
With faces the color of dry brown earth;
They knit grey rosettes and nibble cakes.
And on the porch above them are three children
Gravely kissing each other’s foreheads,
And an ample nurse with a huge red fan....
The death of the afternoon to them
Is but the lengthening of blue-black shadows on brick walls.