My night is taken aback by the plodding of bootless feet trekking to sleep under canal bridges There is no real caveat the facade of this city is refinement memory for bureaucrats is to sandblast granite and scrub copper roofs
How can I say I suffer from loss when they once held photographs, their lives neatly framed by schedules or gentle needles to numb neglect? Fingerless gloves end arms which once embraced now grief congeals around ankles, seizes up knees like March snow- an old crust of crystallized tears
There is no colour except fauve in gray scale.
© Diane Stevenson Schmolka .
Page last modified on December 27, 2014, at 08:33 AM