Under Stale Medusa Skies

Old pavement pulls the street through years

Times of sand tossing curly haired kids

In dried grass: the habit of neglected August,

Swallowing all of late winter’s craving

Into dusty, cob-webbed corners,

Missed by heaven, skipped by hell –

Once sharp places, long gone stale.


Pale skies cast through wrinkled gauze,

Illumed with worried skin,

Pallor of a re-ran TV set,

Where smoke lingers,

Coffee goes warm, then sour

And a chorus of days hangs in the hour.


Tattered screen, leaning fence –

That hard line parting the space of time

From the washed light in a dusty corner,

Speaking truth, three doors down,

Along a street, at the edge of town.

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