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3 short poems


by Neil McCarthy


In the Garden of the Asylum

 

I have watched from my window the foliage

wither then leisurely fall from these trees,

often sat beneath gazing up through

their emaciated limbs imagining God had

thrown me a ladder.


In the garden of the asylum, leaves are

left to decay, growing stiff with dreams of

being swept away; only the watchful remain,

cursing the wind, pleading for stillness.



Black Water

Say the word and I shall become

a photograph;

 

phosphorescence in the black water

of your memory,

glimmering,

then gone.



Café Hummel, Vienna

 

She insists on paying separately,

although she has just dined alone;

 

the unoccupied seat across from her

poker-faced to her verbal onslaught.

 

He regards me with my computer,

mutters something disapprovingly in

 

Wienerisch. I try to explain that it's

because I can't read the newspapers.

 

He explains he doesn't understand.

Perhaps better off talking to a chair.

 

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