April Bartaszewicz Poet Concrete

Elegy

Somewhere a poem
is waiting for me
to write it in the jewelry box,
coiled into an old ring
or stopping the hands
of a watch;
in the vanishing barn risen
to the top of the pail
to be skimmed off;
or in the tree outside
engraving in green ink
on the other side of a leaf.
In my old room
the white curtains blow 
like ghosts of themselves
  over the sill;
under the bed misplaced words gather
to grab my helpless ankle
          it is a poem
the Child I was hides
in the ear of the woman
I have become a poem
who's lines were the lines
          of my fathers' face.

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