2016-10-23
still light of dust in paperback
I come to feed my skin and hair gold light of stained-glass Sunday mornings. An alcoholic searching for hymns on an out-of-tune piano.
I miss something. I miss someone.
I watch my hands age in the soft crush of time.
I wish I had something. I wish I had someone.
Before the laundromat closes. Before the light goes out.