Peter Cole Friedman

P e t e r   C o l e   F r i e d m a n 

Degrees of Fancy

Miserystreaked, we came to fly

our kites, run over the soft turns of the land

until a white painted house’d float above

the sad sobbing strains of the harmonica.

But we keep losing the melody

in the noise of the mourners, slipping about

like shadows at night. If only

the hold the earth has on us could get stronger,

but still have breaks in the tangle

of bushes and trees. 

If only we could sail through the window

without the annoyance of dreams.

source: Shirley Ann Grau’s Keepers of the House

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