randolph henry ash

I can still see you

Sad poet

Sitting in you politest

Of ships sailing, dew on your lips


Green grass tickling your ears

That airless stare, that frozen smile

Across my street

Beautiful poet – don’t chalk the angels

Above my lazy poetry

Your hand will not grow cold. Centuries will

But not you. Not our love.

I still lean on our memory

As everyday is a summer lemonade

And deaths in symmetries.

About this entry