Nightmare

Ugly as a potato you huddle
at a cold port at the edge of a city.
You hawk your incomprehensible baubles,
illegible postcards, cracked thimbles, teeth.
Baleful old rubble, it cannot help you.
All the old selves regard you bleakly.You croon to some rusty vestige,
but a chill wind rustles in the high trees.
It has no need for you, for your salvage:
It belongs to itself, it is getting married.
Leave, it cries, leave. You sell nothing of value.
My happiness has nothing to tell you.



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