THE OLD GRAY LADY

The old gray lady dreams of skirts
Flapping in the wind--
Faces flushing

Babies crying
Knees bleeding
Cotton swabs stained

Red with memory.
What blunt fate scars his sight?
Grant him a knife to sever this root.

He is slow to remember
His home is a crooked stump
In a dead stream.

The vessel bursts.
A wrinkled hand slips off the wheel
And flutters--falling.