...poor man's tea, the softest boiled eggs on toast, porridge too, ere running out the door.



(sonnet #MMMMMMMDCLXIX)


He's smoking when I slide in, as the pale
Eye of a ghastly dawn now fingers hence,
Where shafts pierce 'cross this whiter canvas thence
Half golden, to illumine flakes' detail
Piled up in vast heaps, yet in sheer betrayl
Stacked up like individual pieces, whence
Note how like furry mounds it winks back, sense
Thrilled though ne words frame up what'd non avail.
And oh! his open window yields in tour,
Despite the mad rush of these highways too,
Whose voices? Birds.  As if the sparrows fer
All that were singing gaily unto You.
Likeas they e'er do, LORD.  I need as twere
Aught little glimpse, Thy mercies ever new.

26Jan19a