Thursday, October 20, 2016

When the Wind Tightens its Grip


Painting by Eve Riser Roberts


When the Wind Tightens its Grip 


You saw my legs
and got up from the bed.

Later you called 
wanting assurance 
it was not contagious.

The flowers of cold
died from a dry wind
blowing from the north.
But have no fear, 

gypsies arriving on ships
full of questions
beg you not to forget them,

the same as Modigliani's blue cat.
Don't forget, I'm one of those men
that never asks for anything.

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