last night, towns dreamt of
mists and bridges and
droplets of paint.
signs fell to the curb, rusted,
back when leaves were
things to step on
and
everything was gray
faded letters, then
the shining aluminum of
a smashed can of soda
in the midst of a ruined building.
maybe this is a fragment
of yesterday, tipped into
today
like dreamlands visited
again and again
only to seem so familiar
each time;
and the skies turned
pink
1 comment:
OK - I really love the verses, but please tell me why you named it "Of September"! Why not "Of December" or whatever else?
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in the wake of light, your words bring me more(please, do leave your fingerprints behind, so I may relish the image of our hands after you go.)