POEM AGAINST THE INSTRUCTOR OF WRITINGYour forehead is the color of wild roses
blooming haphazardly in the dogbush.
The plowman turning the field of your brain
wipes his face with a reptilian cloth.
Only the young me with no memories
salute you. They ask to feed a time
off your moisture. They flutter in your net.
I remember the day your shadow fell
across the wild roses and they wilted.
The hush of trees passed over everything
like a blind thief. My fear
begs you to return at least the roses.
Document URL: http://www.english.upenn.edu/~afilreis/88/peterson.html
Last modified: Wednesday, 18-Jul-2007 16:28:01 EDT