On stones mossed with hot dust, no shade but the thin, useless shadows of roadside grasses;
into the wood’s gloom, staring back at the blue flowers on stalks thin as threads.

The green slime – a thicket of young trees standing in brown water;
with knobs like muscles, a naked tree stretches up,
dead; and a dead duck, head sunk in the water as if diving.

The tide is out. Only a pool is left on the creek’s stinking mud…..

Extract from “Sunday Walks in the Suburbs” in “The Poems of Charles Reznickoff 1918-1975“.

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