These, but not those. This, but not yours.
Your patience withers under the sun.
Houses windows mute, but the summer of motors thrums.
Loaded in the nightlawn is a surprise.
--
Steel. Stolen. Hidden all this time along
the course of the stream in green and silver flashes.
Of course I want it, but cool in its right time
under the enigmatic star's bared breast.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment