Departure, from this is my kerchief, inscribed with tears, and I will follow these hands until I am no more. From blindness, besotted curiosity, spotty courtesy, unbeknownst glee at the cost of—these were your thoughts, these were your falsehoods. And wearing the hood, he ran, carrying something which certainly belonged elsewhere. From if you reach there in time why is everyone absent?
Laynie Browne Read Bio Author Discusses Poems
|©copyright 2004-2022, No Tell Motel. All poems ©copyright the authors.|