The neighborhood hawk glides
gracefully over the dead ground.
He soars through the smoke of
my morning cigarette
My burning reminder of regret.
The hawk feels no anguish in the
haze
My haze.
That funnels above the dead ground.
Mar 1, 2011
Mar 1, 2011 at 8:07 PM UTC
The neighborhood hawk glides
gracefully over the dead ground.
He soars through the smoke of
my morning cigarette
My burning reminder of regret.
The hawk feels no anguish in the
haze
My haze.
That funnels above the dead ground.
Request permission to use this poem