Something Not My Own :: September 10th, 2002 ::
Note Slipped under a Door
I saw a high window struck blind
By the late afternoon sunlight.
I saw a towel
With many dark fingerprints
Hanging in the kitchen.
I saw an old apple tree,
A shawl of wind over its shoulders,
Inch its lonely way
Toward the barren hills.
I saw an unmade bed
And felt the cold of its sheets.
I saw a fly soaked in pitch
Of the coming night
Watching me because it couldn’t get out.
I saw stones that had come
From a great purple distance
Huddle around the front door.
by Charles Simic
