Blues #19

We muster up truce,
tune full of bow,
ease and fret, stuff
our swords and rebut
in some strange place
behind soft eye squint
between breath,
ruin this sliver of
pale ruby glint
with a tender pace,
some oily spots
of heap and sunlight,
under thread of cobweb
dangling from the ceiling.

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Categories: Poetry, Writing

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