Thursday, June 27, 2013

Southern Gothic By Donald Justice

 

Something of how the homing bee at dusk
seems to inquire, perplexed, how there can be
No flowers here, not even withered stalks of flowers,
Conjures a garden where no garden is
and trellises too frail almost to bear
the memory of a rose, much less a rose.
Great oaks, more monumentally great oaks now
than ever when the living rose are new,
Cast shade that is the more completely shade
upon a house of broken eaves.
No samask any more prevents the moon,
But it unravels, peeling from a wall,
Red roses within roses within roses.


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