Morendo On Sunday Poem by Leslie Philibert
Morendo On Sunday
a basin of white chipped enamel
tips the wash over the pale streets;
lights appear in the random order
of secret intent, confused stars
in an untidy sky light the northern stone;
hours slip behind a rook`s shadow
as a rain curtain falls: we sigh with routine,
we are waiting for a small, clean death
trapped between the sun and the moon.
Saturday, September 9, 2017
Topic(s) of this poem: dead
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4/25/2024 11:06:56 AM # 1.0.0.1119
Beautiful poem Leslie Thank you for sharing Mario Odekerken