A Quiet Place

Le miroir de mon cœur
refèlte ce que vous etes.

Smashed glass. A piped scream
holds the fragment of light allotted us.

The blotted hills, studious.
The valleys below, obscure.

This is a cure not to be messed with
or dressed in ethics. The anesthetic

of your gaze amazes.
Sewn to the sky’s chapped lips,

a final thought spreads lithe arms,
offering fresh shelter and warmth

from the cold that has lately been
a gray shroud over our discourse.

When the force of the wind
dwindles to a pea, we shall see

our names against the night
glistening like drops of water.

-r. miller

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