Expectation
Aug 24, 2017 · 1 min read
A golden apple’s gloss
must gild this sourness,
a distant star’s
strayed ray
has burnt this hole,
this blind spot
— no, not
another cigarette, waiting
for the train,
always waiting. The hands
do not move, watch,
time stands still
— slipping under, wasted
flotsam expected
from under the bridge,
hangovers from upstream.


