THE WORLD’S

The world’s an old carrousel

in an abandoned amusement park.

I’m a unicorn nailed to a pole,

a tiger impaled on a post,

in the dark.

 

The world’s a theater, half empty.

I’m a ventriloquist’s doll, thought to be

the magician’s assistant—on me

(manacled, fettered, locked in a box)

he practices fake levitations

and similar feats.

 

The world’s a post office.

I’m a dead letter,

Thrown in the mail with no destination,

No one to greet.

The world’s a Lost-and-Found

full of old watches and shoes and keys without locks.

I look around—

and I find

I’m lost.

 

The world’s an old burial ground.

All day people come and go,

come and stay

to pray before angels of stone.

The angels are looking away.

Me they don’t see; I’m going,

I’m light, I’m disappearing,

I’m a ghost.

 

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Carrousel from http://dailyphotoparis.blogspot.com/2009_11_01_archive.html
Angel from http://www.fotopedia.com/wiki/Angel#!/items/egcedflhitn88-AvK0331soFA