July 29

July 29, 2018
by C
comments 5
poetry

at the sharp end of the day,
the month, waiting

for a return, a word,
a small fly traces

a halo for my head,
the open window drawing

no breeze, heat
settles heavily,

I wave it away
absentmindedly,

small ripples
around a fixed point,

barely any light left
now, the first stars,

always up there,
it’s just that night

removes that doubt,
and instills others

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