Saskia Hamilton



No one in the house but the two, the one
on the way to death, the other
on the way to earth. Above, the white sky, not ready
to rain, below, lush, the mid-summer garden,
the thrush, or the child of the thrush,
or the seventeenth generation thrush.

Below, a door opens. No one moves about
but you, in the white chair, typing.


© 2003 Electronic Poetry Review