Still Life
There is nowhere
We can meet, the city
Gray as clouds, streets
Emptier than air, and we
Can never tell everything
We should, for that would lead
To silence. And so we cannot
Stay, but dare not go, remaining
To each other dear, though
Never any longer near.
Finely wrought, & resonant. Good job, Frank!
ReplyDeleteThanks, Susan. That is much appreciated.
ReplyDeleteAnd shapely! A good job indeed.
ReplyDeleteThanks very much, Nige.
ReplyDelete