The apparition of these faces in the crowd:
Petals in a wet, black bough
By Ezra Pound
I don’t like poetry. Having to decipher what the word blue ment in the context of the sentence makes me volatile. In the poem, there are two lines and every word is dissected. I cannot fathom why this was written down. At least in another poem, I could get around to how a fallen leaf sets the poet off into clinical depression.(For some reason, it’s not that sad but still.)
This metro poem, it feels like someone snubbing their nose up to the rest of the people because they, can?! Also, he probably missed the train and was trying to cover his butt. Let’s be honest.