a star and a hanging
basket of geraniums
a street in red November
listening to mockingbirds
from such a few damp
clues I could still
reconstruct you
the sneaky way leaves
fall when you’re not looking
or when you are the birds
poop on the flowers
the inescapable strangeness
we are to one another
and to all beings
love has so far claimed
No comments:
Post a Comment