Pillar of Salt
Once on Cecil Place
fledgling flagstones freckled
like summer faces
in Septembers of taut cypress.
Now neglected planters are urns
for my young ashes,
crypts gaping silent screams.
Blistered doors do not divulge
past secrets,
gravure images are gravel
on a eroding drives.
Fissured streets
are cracked mirrors
reflecting shards of selves.
Time is a slumlord
its seconds a legion
of termites.
I'm a pillar of salt;
I should not have looked.
6/1/17
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