Quiet Weeping
Ashes,
like barn swallows,
rise above a rusty barrel
behind a vacant apartment building
in the Bronx .
Flames leap
from the
red knuckles
of discarded men.
Remember these ashes
as you tap
your new millennium
French wine flute
against the moon’s
silver torso.
If you look closely
you’ll see
delicate etchings
left by the swallows
on the smooth waist
of your glass,
just below
the unfocused eyes
of quiet weeping.
Alan Britt
Posted over on Eleventh Transmission
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