by Paul Schmidt

I’d like to live with you
in some small town,
in never-ending twilight
and the endless sound of bells.

And in the little town’s hotel
the thin chime of an antique clock,
like little drops of time.
And sometimes, evenings, from some attic room,
a flute,
a flute player by a window.
And huge tulips at the windows.
And if you didn’t love me, I ( Read more... )