Cling fast, as if holding on
is something that happens quickly.
It is the low waver of a church organ.
It radiates from the forehead.
Tucked between holiday cards, I keep
your ash in an envelope. Your face remained
still when I asked you to flick your cigarette
into my palm. It has turned, since, from solid
to smear of rain cloud. Cling
fast, as if holding on
is something that happens quickly.
It is the low waver of a church organ.
It radiates from the forehead.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment