A quiet rain settles upon the skin
with languor bereft of desperation
Though oily patches loom in the sky
no girth carries the gust
The summers air is thick, sweet
as new rose wine gelatinating
into this, the cities great paradox
ethereal concrete
.
The finest sight I've ever known
was sprigs breaking through this soil,
filthy chained sand, melancholy hue
bound to our feet and toil
Give me Picasso in the street,
give me Rembrandt, Montague,
anything rather than the color of rains
held in my place of sleep
Want to review or comment on this poem?
Need a FREE Reader Membership?
Reviews of "The bull, lackluster blue 6-27-02 Columbus, Oh"
~Nikki~