Into The Evening Poem by Alfred Lichtenstein
Into The Evening
Out of crooked clouds priceless things grow.
Very tiny things suddenly become important.
The sky is green and opaque
Down there where the blind hills glide.
Tattered trees stagger into the distance.
Drunken meadows spin in a circle,
And all the surfaces become gray and wise...
Only villages crouch glowingly: red stars--
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
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5/3/2024 1:07:42 PM # 1.0.0.1119
