Reading Poetry on the Parliamentary Lawn

I love this quiet city.
The flip flop of sandals passing by
like paperbacks closing one by one.
Somewhere a bagpipe has lost direction
and the mimes are calling out for his whereabouts.
I spot a native selling wool mittens.
It’s the middle of August and she is unawares.
All the while the sun warms my face
like the outside of a teacup,
like a woman’s side,
like a dream what assures what you’ve always known:
the line between soil and flesh dissolves
in time, if you let it.


One Response

  1. Just discovered this.


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