Читать книгу Run the Red Lights - Ed Skoog - Страница 6

Gwendolyn Brooks Park, Topeka

A creek, like a paper fold, runs

one corner to the other

out where the roof of the dead

mall directs sunset to irradiate

her name, in city-carved letters, gold,

the wood around them green.

And then at midnight,

apartment windows hold

star and satellite in the cold

twenty or thirty blocks

from first breath of her infancy

in one of the few cities

(Tupelo and Pretoria are others)

that carries the letters for poet

without port or point in its name.