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and to think i saw it on floyd terrace

Tim Martin's Sonnet Project

Wednesday, August 02, 2006

Monday Morning in Philadelphia

it’s an old midnight, now
this summer cold room here
this letter that started alone
to sit high altitudes with attention
the rest, taste of willow smoke
that only the first ghost takes
in rows of high school lockers
combinationless in theory
this means the end of american life
literally struts in full western apparel
this control is a new kind of drag
fits him like mother of the bride
when you are ready to get there
the key is under the mat


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