For blood grown thin

forty Fahrenheit is Siberia;

breezes suddenly blue

and brittle

shiver through citrus leaves;

a birdsong

bleak and off-key

chills our sense;

sunlight,

pale and tentative,

shelters us from shade

where wisps of vapor

from our mouths recall

northern winter breath

thicker than cigarette smoke,

that reminds us:

Death owns a time share here

and watches,

dressed in warm-ups,

from his lanai.

Facebook  MySpace  Digg  Stumble    Mixx  Fark  del.icio.us   LiveSpaces

Member Comments

View Comments: | Post a comment

No comments posted for this article.

You must first login before you can comment.