4/12/17

Standard

There was something in the way…
Light or varied ephemera
or a sonata or other(ness).
Nowhere, we bothered the infinite.
Placed doubts discreetly
and played with our hair.
We were all out of caring,
cluttered and clattering.
From the stairwell, a murmuring…

She departed
with a handful of rust,
bad intentions trailing her gown.

-r. miller

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