Rain pattered on my window a certain dusk,
I leaned above the pane to gather its husk;
round and smooth like bullets shot clean,
piercing the harvester’s skin,
or bold trellis of lover’s nails in the dark.
Rain hurled himself upon my window pane,
stirring up dust and memories galore,
and a whiff of old romance,
You’d find in Marquez’s Melancholy Whore;
the prey knelt over the threshold of care,
a young, demure Rapunzel,
who let her hair for the Prince’s stair,
taking the crone for her intended.
No comments:
Post a Comment