I will make a poem of this:
coffee so dark
the cream
is a dull
roiling
grey;
a sink
breathing
mossy fumes
but I won’t notice
for at least another day.
Echoes lurk in
converging angles
linking what is to
what might have been.
If I don’t look
I won’t see
the empty bed,
the empty bed
in the
extra room.
Nov 8, 2011
Nov 8, 2011 at 2:42 PM UTC
I will make a poem of this:
coffee so dark
the cream
is a dull
roiling
grey;
a sink
breathing
mossy fumes
but I won’t notice
for at least another day.
Echoes lurk in
converging angles
linking what is to
what might have been.
If I don’t look
I won’t see
the empty bed,
the empty bed
in the
extra room.
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