Through the sight of daylight
I see a street of whitewashed sand,
cars like broken turrets of ice
melting on a moon clock of dew.
The tilt in my last breath
wavers in an open canvas of pake stars,
and under the timid river’s ice
reflects like imprisoned lanterns of orange.
A dwindled telegraph line hangs
like a frozen thread to a web,
its pale frost illuminating
the misty essence of surface.
Warm sunset is staring
at the oily cloud that peers with motion,
while clearing all the whitened ash
from the deluge of Winter’s room.
MJ DUGGAN.
