Leslie Philibert (6th March 1954 / London, England)
The sun moves above me
but not in an honest way.
The morning smells of burnt mallow.
A thousand windows open as if
someone important will visit us.
But the houses are empty.
Spinning with borrowed eyes the world unframed.
Look at this! the cypress trees have fled.
The doors are locked again.
Comments about this poem (Untitled by Leslie Philibert )
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