Monday, November 3, 2014

Of Blue Eggs

Angry working men
take their cars out in the morning.
Imagine the noise.
Silenced we speak quietly
just for the two of us.

Yet things unsaid are more often
remembered.

As the poet sings of blue eggs
your ashen body, moist
from the night burning,
haunts the green penumbra
of my single room.

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