Yellow stripes across the creamy
curtains. Hanging ruffled by the
solid squares of hunkered cushions
pitched together, front of speckled
windows white with roving light.
Passing motors under chirping
birds. A watered rinse of sky
and fluffy serpents white and diving
down into the swoon of rooftops.
Along the street, no face, no feet
tramp along the crumpled bend.
I, alone, sitting meekly
under floors, under sky
pondering the time and place
and by what phrase shall it be framed?
Fading brightness storms the moment,
stillness itches with the pace.
Down the road, a silent cyclist
passes on my silent breath.
Windows grey with leaving day.
Creamy patches on the eggshell
curtains. Scrunched and tightly wrinkled.
Frowning hunkered chairs conspire
together. Before the dappled windows.
Sunny phantoms of the atoms
melt upon my iceberg mind.