Meredith Quartermain


A man in a red coat
plays the piano with his elbows out.
There is nothing in the other rooms.
They have been sewing all day
changing from town to country
a thick wet road of tulip leaves
running to music with puddles
their imagination above the mud.

A line of white stitching
rises because it is solid
like windows designed in prison.
They cannot lie down in the swamp
of short lace skirts leaning out
a wall housed in high and narrow play
mad people say must try to slope
down at the corners of their beds.

The East Village Poetry Web