A lover
In the hanging trees, the shrivel-fruit are dark
as no-moon and bitter as sloes, black the shadows,
pinched, a dead hand’s grip.
Through the leaf-rustle I wade
though briar’s cruel canes bar the way, …
Sunday, November 24, 2024
A lover
In the hanging trees, the shrivel-fruit are dark
as no-moon and bitter as sloes, black the shadows,
pinched, a dead hand’s grip.
Through the leaf-rustle I wade
though briar’s cruel canes bar the way, …
