Ghost street.

A leaf falls

Into the monsoon shadows.

I turn by the grazed branches

Trembling by the dark windows

Into the blustering 

Of frost and the muzzled crystals that lay

Into the black linen on the ground.

We are alone in the patters of wind,

Hear; each turn of the rock,

And see our hands 

Restless into the dark tides

Beyond the heart of a foggy isthmus,

As the light carves into the ice east.

In the memory, a mottled alyssum,

A breath ahead shared,

We were not alone then,

But now we hear the thrush 

Into the beginning of winter

Continuously gone into April

Like a ghost street. 

© 2020 All Rights Reserved.

12 thoughts on “Ghost street.”

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