Bonarda
Bonarda?Twenty eight ripples
counted , flow? actually,
rain drops spare spaces.
?Newcastle darkened by windows,
shut,? a longing for short rope.
?Growing window boxes fell?,
by taxis and the lost echoes?
Part time clocks between dead towers?Tick,
through the eroded scraggy day?
Arrows flew blistered stray crows
Copyright © John Lusardi | Year Posted 2021
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