If I left this town


I would miss the grey
of afternoons
at their height.
The dirty blue-greens.
of a sky inked
with whey-faced clouds.
Newsprint smudged
on the clammy hand of god.

And miss
the smallness of worlds
huddled together,
where consciousnesses,
like bare branches
of big city trees in winter,
only touch
when the wind blows.

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If I left this town


I would miss the grey
of afternoons
at their height.
The dirty blue-greens.
of a sky inked
with whey-faced clouds.
Newsprint smudged
on the clammy hand of god.

And miss
the smallness of worlds
huddled together,
where consciousnesses,
like bare branches
of big city trees in winter,
only touch
when the wind blows.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

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