Son

Son

An orphaned night rises over the saintly gardens of Bologna…
I am looking for you among these ruins that call themselves poems
Looking for you as if it the last thing to be done in this greying mist
Before dusk I have seen you moving as a thread of silk from a spiders 
Cloak I have seen you tasting water made of prayer and ash

And a little horse in your pocket
         Made of
                         String….
      The solemn world drinking at the 
Wells of indifference….

     Names falling out of the autumn

                                                           Leaves…

For michael 
10/25/19
Bologna

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