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The Old Man (a prose poem)

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  • n.m.rai
    The Old Man He s like a cabin stumbled on in the woods, tilted to the setting sun. Years and the smell of mice layer themselves over the raw green of the boy
    Message 1 of 1 , Jun 2, 2007
      The Old Man



      He's like a cabin stumbled on in the woods, tilted to the setting sun.
      Years and the smell of mice layer themselves over the raw green of
      the boy within, the thin pine planks whipped together to a six foot
      frame.


      He is worn in places and dark light slips in on full moon nights.
      Nails sprung loose from a long ago settling host spider webs and the
      rust of dreams.


      There's a music in the rafters, a mix of howls and song, vowels and
      grunts. A mind slips for a moment and a music hesitates over the
      voices of lost loves, the names it takes a moment to remember, this
      pause that feels like betrayal.


      His walk is dusted with the shuffle to come. He is at once fierce and
      frail, becoming a marriage of opposites, the last questing flame of a
      candle's burning.


      n.m.rai
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