the ghost will
run,
along the cement,
the ice deep
in the pavement,
sick and gray
curves through pines
glittering,
blocks the tread
the slopes rise, dark
the sky glows
above them,
the black asphalt threads
between them
circles of light cut it,
rising,
a temporary constellation
fleeing, flying
through the dark
falling to the valley floor.
No comments:
Post a Comment