Email Poem

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Poem

an old shed leans crookedly in the tall 
grass.

  a door is lifted and opened.

 like a warn vinyl record to the needle 
rusty hinges 
snap and crackle as they turn.  

  between slight variations in tone metallic
 
yesterdays speak through hinged lips. 

i am apart from the decay.

  
now little is inside except some dust with 
a
 few oddities scattered around.

 a dented paint can that had been knocked 
over, 
the paint lieing on the floor in a puddle. 

   dried and splintered out in an ornate 
pattern
 in shades of dark yellow.

it seems to pure for its surroundings.

the paint speaks through its flat chipped 
throat lowly.

 i am apart from the decay.


  outside the sun overhead has learned

  to speak in parables but the dandilions

  dont seem to mind.

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