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Sight Seeing
From my English cottage
I can see America.
Éire sings, as it labors in my field of vision,
it's drunk on nostalgia as usual.
A great sail-winged albatross
glides across from one eye to the other.
The trip to Ohio
is a drawn-out unmusical note in a leaky
squeeze box.
From my Midwest window I can see
the top of a Walmart roof,
it has a beauty all of its own.
Morning and evening,
snow white seagulls fly in from Atlantis,
a dreaming place that only appears
when the sun perches upon
puffy eyelids.
In a twilit garden
(a place where paper roses
wrestle with living thorns),
time circles
seeking its way past another day.
The days hitchhike on my shoulder, I must travel
across the luna surface of my mind.
One deep breath should be enough
to push me just beyond the city dump.
Copyright ©
Eric Ashford
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