Without biting bugs
And the territorial shrieks of gulls,
This is little more than a flat-screen TV.
And yet:
There is a cricket secreted in the ceiling tiles,
Singing to a newly determined storm;
And there is the semaphore of the rain
On the old roof
To remind me
That i am not alone here,
Not all alone.
i live on an island,
weave dreams on a prairie,
build boxes in the suburbs,
And watch water and sky
rise and fall
Through the great window
of memory.
--Mr. Gobley
