Sketch Poem by Leslie Philibert
Sketch
Rating: ★2.8
Cold. Stars. A breath you can see.
Hills stand round a village like ignored guests
at a reception.The lights of the street fail; they obey not.
The second; the sleet forces my face down
to the wet road. It is nearly time.
The end; I return to a home that kicks me.
Cold. The stars ice. Midnight.
Wednesday, February 13, 2013
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4/24/2024 4:32:44 PM # 1.0.0.1119
