Colin Greenfield


Proof Spring

Empty eyes haunt labyrinthine halls
where time washes by with coffee,
tea and milk.
Evening is filled with the chatter of old Arab women at the well.
Hope is measured in milligrames of dope,
and peace comes creeping in needels by night.
By the lake we skip pennies of regret
across tepid water
while muskrates play on the opposite bank.

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