one september shall remember her
when the tin birds scratched a trail
they all saw her through the fog
and smiled for she trembled unbared
as phone booths turned to violin players
and children turned to paper cut outs
they followed her everywhere
and beside the graveyard of time and times
they made her loose her way
that september she came back to her love
of myriad faces
that never saw her.
No comments:
Post a Comment