C'Est Fini Paris Poem by Stephen Brian Brady
C'Est Fini Paris
words would only lie
in the folds of table-cloth and die
their eyes measured and withdrew touch
across the wilderness of inner space
they listened for the sounds of breaking through a wall
clung hold to cups pale tasteless empty of it all
and then they rose and flew
slow wing beats trailing feathers
from Cafe Temps Perdus
Wednesday, June 29, 2011
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9/23/2024 8:47:09 AM # 1.0.0.1119
