Saturday, May 28, 2016

Robert Verdon, #156, The Great Fugue

we follow
the sharp arc of a fingernail,
the sun with curved fog rays
on the white rainbow of death,
the great ship slow but sweeping all aside like a bowling ball,
the crowd jumping like raindrops on hot steel,
the last curtain that never parts

let me be with you until the grave
claims us both
let us breathe with a skipping heart
in the great fugue of our last decades
two brilliant parrots in a wattle bush
two white moths in a taiga of rosemary


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