The words came together,
and stretched on the frame
Their meaning spilled over,
as paint in the drain
The canvas so porous,
the easel divine
The curtains blew outward,
faces calling in mime
The streets all a-chatter,
it was Paris in spring
And striving to look busy,
the most important of things
Looking up at my window,
above the tannery so high
A shadow stared back,
—as I flee in disguise
(Villanova Pennsylvania: June,2016)
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem