from sounds:

February 16, 2013 § Leave a comment

sabato in sunglasses, white wine.

the car pulls up by the dry fountain in the cold evening at the right time.

the beginnings of night and still,

the sun is bleeding behind the mountain. come, come on

down. No, it won’t let me

wash the wound. cyprus like a barb against the sky

soaks up the moon and I.

 

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