You wear it and it snows: tracks empty the park outside the museum. A promo pen blues
your breast-pocket lining, and a snag starts to pull at your sleeve. The last one left
is as good as extinction. So says the quote on the leaking plastic.
But someone’s pinkie shined of wax on this second-hand tweed
flecks the lapel with an old, cleared hearing – conversation recorded in a stain.
The branches listen in, for this tree is like talk and there’s always a point
from which you are behind it, windows lighting up in the dinosaur wing.
your breast-pocket lining, and a snag starts to pull at your sleeve. The last one left
is as good as extinction. So says the quote on the leaking plastic.
But someone’s pinkie shined of wax on this second-hand tweed
flecks the lapel with an old, cleared hearing – conversation recorded in a stain.
The branches listen in, for this tree is like talk and there’s always a point
from which you are behind it, windows lighting up in the dinosaur wing.
by Charles Hansmann
Sea Cliff, New York
first published in Snap Poetry Journal
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