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