In fact, here's one of his favorites--and if you haven't heard a three-year-old say the title, you're missing out.
CrepuscularWhat a drubbing this sundown!—its gloom
hunting out my sorest remorses
to bludgeon me with. That’s what the light does
in autumn, slanting southward and brownly
between the hunched houses of the nieghborhood.
IT falls against the sidewalk like a slab
of meat, like a mugging the passersby pass by.
The church bells bang hollow vespers.
Is there any sound more foresaken
than the rainbird smach across the spent grass?
Yes. The ignition jump of a car
heading anywhere, tail-lights red
as the rubber stamp on a divorce decree,
its diminishing rev a metaphor
for the failure of metaphor. The car
is a car leaving, and then left.
— Kimberly Johnson
|Here's a picture of Kim Johnson, although her poem is much better than any picture!|