Babylon

The city grew. Not on its own,
Nor by (what rot) directed thought
But by a sense it should have grown
And mild surprise that it had not,
Converted into even milder
Satisfaction that it had.
The city grown was somewhat wilder,
Though all in all hardly that bad,
And  everybody (nearly so)
Was certain it would soon be fixed
(By whom? Who knew). And so things go
By time and random movement mixed.
The city burned, of course, but then
What else befalls the works of men?

Savings Time

The night is come. The dark (of course) is here.

And yet I cannot bring myself to care.

How is it different than what came before?

Why should it matter that the light has gone?

The dark of night is not a cause for fear--

Everything that's in it now was there

During the daylight. So is there any more

Reason to be worried, to go on 

And on about the falling darkness? No.

It is a change, but it is not a fault.

And as I watch the flashing headlights go

Winking out as each comes to a halt

I think I might prefer the dark of night

When each of us provides a little light.

Sense Memory

The smell of moss that's just been touched by rain
Reminds me always of my parents' home;
The hidden house that runs against the grain,
Entered from the side, its fertile loam
Utterly grassless, with a few tall trees
Emerging from the lichen on the ground,
Its windows shuttered 'gainst the western breeze
That, broken, slowly blows from Puget Sound.
I think of setting forth beyond the gate
Seeing the broken pavement bent by roots,
The saddle-hill that drops off to the lake
And wondering if I'm already late
To catch the bus--or if its twisting routes
Have slowed it to the pace that I can make.