New Poem.
A Ceiling for Rain to Fall Upon
Why come home late
with the smell
of rain along my neck,
in my hair?
And the timbre
of my friends' voices,
The past and present
hammering against themselves
like tree branches in the wind.
I close the door as secretly
as I can behind me.
The revelry sleeps
somewhere within.
A bed for one person.
The shortest sentence I can write.
Why come home late
with the smell
of rain along my neck,
in my hair?
And the timbre
of my friends' voices,
The past and present
hammering against themselves
like tree branches in the wind.
I close the door as secretly
as I can behind me.
The revelry sleeps
somewhere within.
A bed for one person.
The shortest sentence I can write.