She sips cold coffee
late on a Sunday
waiting for the week to
overtake her, ennui
and uncombed hair
pushed back from her face
by images burned like whiskey
into the clenched confines of her gut:
housekeys abandoned to
dewed grass one summer’s
violet ending; dying flowers
of a spring flung out wide
over barren shoulders;
the roughened heels
of her soul’s master
pacing always
three steps ahead.
Brushing back strands
and consciousness
an unmoved midnight
passes hollowly
and she swallows,
searching, bitter
all the way down.
the tenth muse 
Ah……..Finally!
Ennui, damn, one of my favorite words, dig this poem and of course, always worth waiting for your next piece.
i like some of the pieces….but i wonder…why poem is filled with images….i mean…der is succession of recalled images in words….and then its a collage….obviously no conclude….
is poem….a succession of images? i m jus askin’
manish,
for me, a good poem paints a picture of an instant, or a collection of instants, makes you see them, taste them. it doesnt have to come to a point. my work has always been very visual. thanks for the feedback and for stopping by.