The Four Directions
From the southern exposure, hot sun,
two freewaystheir endless thrum
and lonesome dogs next door. From north,
more freeways and garbage guys scavenging
all night. The west brings trucks, crazy Janice,
psycho Gregoff his medsunleashed dogs,
unleashed people. Ask why I dont move,
Ill tell you: the east is cool and dark, silent,
fern-shaded, crawling with vines wanting
no light, no attention, asking you to be still.
Often the voices of the dead can be heard.
Good days, they offer respite among plants
that lead their small, unknowable lives.
Return to Archive
FRiGG: A Magazine of Fiction and Poetry | Issue 35 | Winter 2012