Morendo On Sunday
a basin of white chipped enamel
tips the wash over the pale streets;
lights appear in the random order
of secret intent; confused stars
in an untidy sky light the northern stone,
hours slip behind a rook`s shadow;
a rain curtain falls as we sigh with routine:
we are waiting for a small, clean death,
trapped between the sun and the moon.
Copyright © Leslie Philibert | Year Posted 2017
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