Apr 12, 2011

PARIS BLUES



Ghost Braille 
of rain
on sfumato smear
of tram windows. 
Sun staccato 
through same.
Angled shadows, 
fallen brows.   
Time is the gun
of gravity.  
Everyone on Earth 
is a stranger
on the train, 
in the end
everyone leaves. 
Everyone
gets off.  
At the same stop,
though destinations
differ,  I don’t
think you’re 
my neighbor,
know you 
from anywhere,
wonder where
you’ve gone. 
All the eye 
sees, closes,
forgets.

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