22
02
2007
Of Perhaps Armageddon
It was not the time of morning
for chasing dreams
like slippery fish tails
or shunning the shadow of her,
forever enshrined in perfection.
The wheels crackle over gravel
as she pulls away and
Summer lulls into Autumn
like a libretto dimming.
Though it is the morning
of the evening
of perhaps Armageddon,
I still bother
to straighten the sheets,
fluff the impression of her head
from the pillow,
and mask the mystery of us
under the soft comfort
of quilted down.
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