What is left behind,
a scrap of our past, twenty
years reduced to this,
splashes from the glass
that falls to the ground between
my splayed feet planted
below your window -
and you but a dangling twist
of cloth above me.
I must go, I guess.
It does me no good holding
court outside your house.
September 19, 2010 12:41 PM
Enjoyed.
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