Jul 8, 2021
1 min read
Face in the Waterfall
A mea culpa sonnet
Sunday has come. Your absence is severe.
My wooden house is empty by the sea.
Although the white paint glows expansively
I feel the curse of a cold hand lurking here.
I take a back trail walk to the waterfall
and think my thalamus is telling lies.
Focusing in, I see drenched hair and eyes
inside the…
