urban farmhouse at twilight


there is the subtlest of breezes from full-flung windows where the world
comes in, dragging its day-end noises: settling birds, slowing traffic.
It smells still of dark coffee & morning-baked bread. someone
coughs. the last sighs of light reflect against glass and chrome;
shadows pool between the cobbles. a scrape of chairs as this place
slowly empties, we the dregs of what had been an over-full cup.
my wine is sweeter with every

fluorescent heartbeat,
a new green pulses lamplit;
last lip-stained-glass kiss.

20 thoughts on “urban farmhouse at twilight

  1. nice. so am i going to get to hear this on the 13th…really great descriptions and i could clearly hear you in it…we the dregs…that is when the fun really begins isnt it?

    • hah! depends a little on who’s with you there in the dregs, i think. *smiles* speaking of, it’ll be great to see (and hear!) you next Fri.– seems it’s been far too long.

  2. Very atmospheric.
    No cigarette smoke and now stale beer?
    good place to be to end the day in.
    I can so hear that scraping of the metal chair on the pavement.

  3. I read this a second time aloud, because I could sense that the alliteration and onomatopaeia of your verses – “full-flung windows where the world
    comes in, dragging its day-end noises” – would taste wonderful on the tongue… and I was right! Excellent poem, and a beautiful display of craftsmanship.

  4. These descriptions are so crisp. For me, they evoked a few summer months that I lived /studied in Paris a long while ago. The buildings so close to one another, open windows…you felt like you were intruding on the lives of others.


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