Of Courtyards
by Mark Navarro
her fingers—small, thin, golden—curled around
her fingers—small, thin, golden—curled around
the chain-link fence, the rust rubbing off
on her yellow dress blowing in the breeze:
the leaves behind her rustling as her eyes widened
as her hair was tossed about:
goodbye.
No comments:
Post a Comment
‹
›
Home
View web version
No comments:
Post a Comment