7-24 Grace

Grace

 

As I recline in this screened back porch,

three moths thump against the grid past dusk.

 

After weeks of baked dust,

moisture touches my cheek

and curls a paperback on the chair.

 

Distant rumblings never arrive.

A spittle of rain brushes by.

 

Off with the light.

The porch is dark as metro soot.

Drenched with pitch,

these eyes—insatiable jewels—are blind

 

in a pavilion of silence.

 

 

 

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