By Billy Collins
During this relocating and playful assortment, Billy Collins touches on an array of subjects--love, dying, solitude, formative years, and aging--delving deeper than ever prior to into the complicated folds of lifestyles.
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Against my landscape your figure fades, sandy as sparrow feathers, Your wary step as careful, as crackling. . Summer ground is a place for sleeping, Ten years curled on the green weeds, fir needles pricking the sleeve of my dress, No waking until my eye lenses also are painted green Making a green sky flaming for me, whether watered or not. And no longer any step, your step Exploring with its shoe-soles my bridges of bone. New Tenants The new people in our old house Have moved all the furniture; they've installed Different children on the swings.
And the executioner packs up his melted metal, His end of the world made into a cube, His bucket of anger too heavy to lift. Our World, and Us, Remade by Heat The sky is broken into three charred pieces. Buried somewhere in the place where they don't meet Is the other edge of the circle that we don't make; Out there all possibilities are tripled; there's an end That everyone feels they are meant for; There are fields of fire That blind our eyes from the inside, flow out Streamers behind each ear, Sear us into what we never were In the days when we fought, toe to toe, along the stairwell carpet, Words like a flight of insects settling on the ceiling.
Now, burnt dry, Against the pane of stars that scours our sky from crown to crown, We revolve slowly, bounded by each other, Mute, in the dazzling garden. Metastasis The vine in the veins insidiously Webbed: roots pushed down into the fingertips, So that one day you wake up and all of you is blossom. Alien, it paints your scenery i n clinging leaves; Pale green fear, Sticky, a snail's trail behind you. The soft normal stuff of breathing Struggles in jungle, thinks one-word thoughts: sun, me. It's bent on itself, Fights toward water like a maniac.