Jonathan Finch
HOW TYPICAL
How typical to keep the candle lit
till the last thin edge of the wick is burnt
and wheeling out of the wheeling sky, like chaotic birds,
our glances meet where all that was sweet
has the odour of rancid milk in a pail
while down in the darkness
heedless of us there wails, this wails,
through the edge of wind as cold as it is hard.
(But, sweetheart,
what became of your winning card?)
(from “”Love” Poems For Kathy / Green. Laced. Leaves”)
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