To England in
General
There are no postage stamps that send letters
back to England three centuries ago,
no postage stamps that make letters
travel back until the grave hasn't been dug yet,
and John Donne stands looking out the window,
it is just beginning to rain this April morning,
and the birds are falling into the trees
like chess pieces into an unplayed game,
and John Donne sees the postman coming up the street,
the postman walks very carefully because his cane
is made of glass.
By Richard Brautigan
Tell Your Friends About It |
Print This Poem
Comments
You should be logged in to be able to leave comments
Other poems by Richard Brautigan:
|