449 Readings

If Divorce Were Our Concerto

You play notes of white water or black water. They

are fingers or drapes, also. They pinpoint departure. Cascades perish

becoming not water but light. Not Christmas light. Light purely

mean and ruthless. I am pleading now. White is every illumination waving

goodbye. You utter a white scale of irises gone vulgar, brazen, their

stamen exposed like the black oboe, their inner sift and spill, spirits

left in a white circle of sheets. The bed, the room emptied, hence –

Posted 03/20/14
Golden Shovel composed from Brooks, "Children of the Poor"
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