Thursday, September 23, 2021


 more often it comes like light

falling upon the floor with lines straight/angled tight 

no poetry tonight 

he breathes deep sleeping curled in green & dust & day 

as i try to untie the remaining knots 

shadows swallow the sun at a quarter to five wind stills 

he turns towards into the night with promises of respite 

while knots become nighthawks soaring to an unchartered home 

No comments:

Post a Comment