The sky these days seems small,
a coffin lid from the inside --
washed blue muslin lining. This town,
a scrimshaw drawn on ivory
the hue of stale dishwater. Men,
beautiful men, once thronged these streets.
I had been one of them. Sudden,
the way today occurred, when
I realized I know what's under
every stone -- stones whose creases echo
the lines framing my eyes. Lily Marlene
on my headphones. An old dog sighs.
No comments:
Post a Comment