Thursday, December 21, 2017

ABANDON

Gleaming white
jet planes
maneuvering around

towering jigsaw
of sky-
scrapers downtown;

snow
landing faintly
on rows of slate stones

in a church yard
in December, in the
slight evening sun—

the music ends,
but someone
still remembers

how the words went:
nothing—ever has to
be a certain way.

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