Rusty

A corrugated pipe
that stopped carrying water 20 years ago
after the hillside was clear-cut,
north side green with algae,
south side red as the center of Australia
& the only rust holes on top
where the rain has sought admittance:

I have been of little use
these past few decades
but I’m as full of holes as a flute
only the rarest wind can play
& in the right light
can almost be said to glow.
I will surrender to dissolution
but not right away.
I will give myself over to the patient
ministrations of the rain.

4 Replies to “Rusty”

  1. This is lovely, Dave. One of your best, I think. Sweet and strong, well-worn . . .

    It takes a lot of living to write a poem like that. Your poem calls to mind what Geoff Dyer observed about John Berger (linking him with Shelley, Lawrence, and Orwell, hence the quote’s plural number): “the way that they arranged their lives in such a way as to seek out the experiences appropriate to their respective gifts.” Whenever I think of Robert Bly’s adage, I think of you, too: “To write differently, you have to change your life.”

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