Tuesday, October 6, 2015

End of Summer

by M.J. Iuppa

By dusk, swallows
disappear–  the barn door
left open a crack.

Now gunshot
marks distance,
close range.

Estranged hour
each second
a lost eyelash.

Work? Anyplace.
A stand of spruce
wears darkness.

Tongue
against palette
issues

small airs
there, there
consoles loneliness–

the clock’s click,
the moth’s
wobble

going mad
for the lamplight’s
humor.

1 comment:

  1. MJ -- This is simply stunning. And simply is the right word. Such perfection in sparseness. Brava, friend.

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