Wares

The water is still on

cascades in a spackled sink

but no one is home

for miles and miles around

 

light traces patterns

in the iris of crows

all of the land

was wrapped in stillness

 

broken by the clatter

of the pots and pans

of the roadside stand on wheels

across the barren mainstreet

rolled

 

pushed by the tinker

maker of things

but all he could sell was his own

to nobody at that

 

setting of the sun

hours before sunset

lost in martian haze

of dust creeping halfway

up its horizons

 

the tinkle of bells

weave the cleanest sutures in

the fabric of time

returning us

before we know we have left

 

holding handfuls

of odd objects

that find ways to leave

any possession

 

tinker of odd wares

on the empty streets

of civilization