A Cold Rhode Island Morning
Beyond the gates,
Where the old bakery stood,
Was a memory of cold hands and
The saving glittering gems of the jelly doughnut.
Then late for practice and asthmatic from suicides.
My mother's voice calling in the wind.
When is it all reconstructed the right way?
Under what gray moon do things flutter with meaning
As deep as our bones?
Copyright © Matt Caliri | Year Posted 2016
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