This furious dawning,
wind chapped wooden awning,
lit deceptively by the dying moon,
echoes a purpose of place
deep in me.
Each day, with a thousand
natural spoils,
each hour,
my will naturally
recoils,
in the face of
movement, of
uprooting,
once again,
for rooms
with bay windows
overlooking violent
dawns (and dusks),
languid streetlights
in far off places,
novelty.
Share :
