The Tower
It was covered by a blanket of moss
with a wood fence that looked as sturdy as
a young child’s craft project, stretching across
a patio, the memory of jazz.
It had a tower on the balcony,
reaching towards the moon in the midnight sky.
A witches’ tower made with alchemy
in which a kidnapped girl, hostage, would cry.
It has a fierce lean, rivaling that of
the famous Piza ruin, so extreme
it looks it will fall if you give a shove.
The castle, the image, must be a dream.
An old green forest, decaying behind
the stone castle, which I’m sure you can find.
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